LADY  JANE 


MK.    GLX   GIVES   LADY  JAN.C.    A  ^c,SSON    IN    DANCING.      (SEE    IMoi<;    II2.J 


LADY  JANE 


BY 


MRS.  C.  V.JAMISON 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 
1916 


Copyright,  1891,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGB 

I.  THE  BLUE  HERON i 

II.  TONY  GOES  WITH  LADY  JANE n 

III.  MADAME  JOZAIN 15 

IV.  AN  INTERRUPTED  JOURNEY 24 

V.  LAST  DAYS  AT  GRETNA 32 

VI.  PEPSIE 37 

VII.  THE  ARRIVAL 44 

VIII.  LADY  JANE  FINES  A  FRIEND 50 

IX.  THE  FIRST  VISIT  TO  PEPSIE 56 

X.  LADY  JANE  FINDS  OTHER  FRIENDS 63 

XI.  THE  VISIT  TO  THE  PAICHOUX 70 

XII.  TANTE  MODESTE'S  SUSPICIONS 76 

XIII.  ONE  OF  THE  NOBILITY 81 

XIV.  LADY  JANE  VISITS  THE  D'HAUTREVES 88 

XV.  LADY  JANE  FINDS  A  MUSIC-TEACHER 95 

XVI.  PEPSIE  is  JEALOUS 100 

XVII.  LADY  JANE'S  DANCING-MASTER 108 

XVIII.  LADY  JANE'S  CHRISTMAS  PRESENTS 113 

XIX.  MARDI-GRAS 120 

XX.  LADY  JANE   DINES  WITH  MR.  GEX 130 

XXI.  AFTER  THE  CARNIVAI 138 

XXII.  PAICHOUX  MAKES  A  PURCHASE 144 

vii 

338021 


van  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER 

XXIII.  MADAME  JOZAIN  CALLS  UPON  MAM'SELLE  DIANE 156 

XXIV.  RASTE  THE  PRODIGAL j62 

XXV.  THE  JEWEL-BOX l68 

XXVI.  THE  FLIGHT I72 

XXVII.  THE  LITTLE  STREET  SINGER ^8 

XXVIII.  LADY  JANE  FINDS  SHELTER ^7 

XXIX.  TANTE  MODESTE  FINDS  LADY  JANE 194 

AT  MRS.  LANIER'S 201 

XXXI.  LADY  JANE  COMES  TO  HER  OWN 210 

XXXII.  A  MERRY  CHRISTMAS 217 

XXXIII.  As  IT  is  Now 230 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Mr.  Gex  gives  Lady  Jane  a  lesson  in  dancing Frontispiece 

Madame  Jo^ain       17 

Raste 29 

Pepsie  at  work 39 

Mr.  Gex  at  the  door  of  his  shop  66 

Tante  Modeste  takes  Lady  Jane  to  ride  in  the  milk-wagon  ....  72 

Lady  Jane  wis  lingering  on  the  sidewalk,  near  the  green  fence  ...  83 

Lady  Jane  Is  presented  to  Madame  d'Hautreve 91 

"  Yes,  Lady  dear,  I  want  yon  to  learn  to  play  on  the  piano,  and  I  'II  tell  you 

what  I've  been  thinking  of,"  said  Pepsie 103 

Lady  Jane  clung  tightly  to  Tiburce  on  one  side,  and  Tite  on  the  other.  .  123 

There  were  demons  and  angels,  clowns  and  monks,  imps  and  fairies.  .  126 

The  Mardi-gras  procession.  The  Bceuf-gras 128 

She  cried  out  pitifully,  "It's  Lady  Jane" 133 

"  Go  and  look  for  her;  don't  stand  there  glaring  at  me.  Go,  I  say!"  and 

Pepsie  raized  her  nut-cracker  threateningly* .  140 

"  Why,  papa,  where  in  the  world  did  you  get  this?  "  said  Modeste  .  .  .  149 
Mam'selle  Diane  said  calmly,  ' '  I  regret,  Madame,  that  you  thought  me  a 

teacher  of  music" 157 

Staggering  to  her  bed,  she  sat  down  on  the  edge  and  read  the  large 

characters.  1 66 


X  LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Madame  Jo^ain  bargains  for  her  moving 

A  right  merry  time  she  bad  cut  there  in  the  biting  December  night, 

pirouetting  with  her  own  shadow 185 

Lady  Jane,  clinging  to  the  railing,  looked  and  looked 1 88 

Paicboux  looked  on,  smiling  broadly 196 

"Ob,ob!   It 's  Tony !"  cried  Lady  Jane 219 

Lady  Jane  and  ber  grandfather 225 

Lady  Jane  and  Mam'sette  d'Hautreve  before  the  statue  of  Mother  Margaret.  23 1 


LADY  JANE 


CHAPTER  I 


THE    BLUE    HERON 

IT  was  in  the  beautiful  Teche  country,  on  a  passenger  train  of  t? c 
Louisiana  and  Texas  Railroad,  that  "Lady  Jane"  first  saw  a 
blue  heron. 

The  month  was  July,  the  weather  was  intensely  hot,  and  the 
dusty,  ill- ventilated  car  was  closely  packed  with  a  motley  crowd. 
Among  the  travelers  were  Texas  ranchmen,  cattle  dealers  trom 
the  Opelousas,  Cajan  farmers  from  the  Attakapas,  nuns,  priests, 
itinerant  merchants,  tired,  dusty  women,  dressed  in  cotton  gowns 
and  sun -bonnets,  and  barefooted,  white-headed  children,  very 
noisy  and  restless,  wandering  constantly  back  and  forth  between 
the  water-tank  and  their  lunch-baskets,  eating  cold  chicken  or 
munching  stale  biscuit.  The  ranchmen  and  cattle  dealers  talked 
in  loud,  good-natured  voices ;  the  nuns  bent  over  their  prayer- 
books  ;  the  priests  yawned  and  nodded ;  the  merchants  displayed 
their  wares ;  the  children  fretted ;  the  babies  cried,  while  the  weary 


2  LADY    JANE. 

mothers  patted,  tossed,  and  coaxed  them  with  untiring  love  and 
patience ;  and  the  train  flew  on,  with  its  hot,  dusty  passengers,  over 
as  beautiful  a  country  as  ever  was  seen,  through  level  stretches  of 
sugar-cane  and  rice,  crossed  by  narrow  bayous  that  intersected  the 
green  plane,  catching  here  and  there  gleams  of  sunlight,  like  sil 
ver  threads,  through  the  dark  cypress  swamps,  whose  bleached  trees 
were  crowned  with  hoary  moss,  while  the  trunks  were  clothed  in 
living  green,  and  festooned  with  the  lovely  blossoms  of  the  jasmine, 
and  wild  passion-flowers  entwined  with  masses  of  delicate  vines, 
twisted  together  in  cords  and  loops  of  luxuriant  verdure,  that  clam 
bered  upward  from  the  dank  soil  toward  the  sunlight  and  the  blue 
sky.  In  places  the  track  seemed  to  run  over  beds  of  glossy  latanea 
and  swaying  swamp-grasses,  where  glistened  little  shallow  pools 
covered  with  lily-pads  and  white  fragrant  blossoms. 

In  spite  of  the  intense  heat,  the  day  was  beautiful.  Great  banks 
of  white  clouds  drifted  across  the  sun,  softening  its  ruddy  glare,  and 
throwing  fantastic  shadows  over  the  floating  prairies  and  purple 
islands  of  cypress  that  dotted  the  broad  yellow  expanse.  Now  and 
then,  a  flock  of  birds,  startled  by  the  rush  of  the  train,  rose  up  with 
a  shrill  cry  and  noisy  whirr  of  wings,  and  soared  away  in  a  long, 
trailing  line  toward  the  lazy  drifting  clouds. 

Of  all  the  passengers,  there  were,  perhaps,  none  who  noticed  or 
cared  for  the  strange  and  beautiful  scenery,  that  constantly  changed 
as  the  train  sped  on,  except  the  quiet  occupants  of  one  seat,  who 
were  so  unlike  those  around  them  as  to  attract  no  little  attention 
and  curiosity.  They  were  a  woman  and  a  child ;  the  lady,  young, 
elegant,  and  pretty,  was  dressed  in  deep  mourning;  the  little  girl, 
who  was  about  five  years  of  age,  wore  a  white  cambric  frock,  plain, 
but  exquisitely  fine,  a  wide  straw  hat,  and  long  black-silk  stockings, 
and  her  neat  shoes  were  tied  with  tiny  bows.  Her  skin  was  deli 
cately  fair  and  rosy,  her  eyes  of  purple-blue  were  shaded  by  long 


LADY   JANE.  3 

dark  lashes,  and  her  hair,  of  a  pure  golden  yellow,  hung  in  a  thick, 
wavy  mass  down  to  the  loops  of  her  black  sash.  She  was  a  dainty, 
delicate  little  creature,  and,  although  very  warm  and  very  tired,  was 
evidently  too  well-bred  to  annoy  others  with  restlessness  or  impa 
tience,  but  remained  quietly  kneeling  on  the  seat,  at  the  window  of 
the  car,  her  bright  eyes  fixed  on  the  beautiful  landscape,  as  the  train 
rushed  along. 

The  mother  had  thrown  back  her  heavy  crape  veil,  and  a  little 
ripple  of  hair  as  yellow  as  the  child's  showed  beneath  the  widow's 
cap.  She  looked  very  weary  and  ill ;  her  eyes  were  heavy  and 
swollen  with  weeping ;  her  face,  thin  and  worn  in  spite  of  her  youth, 
was  flushed  with  fever,  and  her  lips  were  parched  and  drawn  as  if  she 
suffered  intense  pain.  At  times,  she  pressed  her  hand  to  her  forehead 
and  closed  her  eyes ;  then,  she  would  start  suddenly  and  look  about 
her,  with  a  glance  of  apprehension,  and  her  clasp  would  tighten 
around  the  child  at  her  side,  as  if  she  feared  to  lose  her  hold  of  her 
even  for  a  moment ;  and,  now  and  then,  the  little  girl  would  lean  back 
her  rosy  face,  and  press  it  to  her  mother's  flushed  cheek,  saying  softly: 

"  Does  your  dear  head  ache,  now,  mama?" 

"  A  little,  darling,"  the  mother  would  answer,  as  she  smoothed 
the  golden  hair  that  fell  over  her  black  gown. 

Then  the  child  would  turn  back  to  the  window  to  watch  the 
flight  of  birds,  the  purple  islands  of  cypress,  and  the  shadows  sailing 
over  the  billowy  grasses  of  the  floating  prairies.  And  so  the  train 
sped  on  and  on,  and  the  morning  was  verging  to  noon,  when  sud 
denly  she  turned  with  eyes  full  of  delight,  and  said  to  her  mother, 
whose  head  had  drooped  into  her  open  palms : 

"Look,  mama!  Oh,  look  at  the  lovely  river!  See  what  big 
trees,  and  pretty  houses,  and  there  is  a  big  boat  coming,  and  lots 
and  lots  of  lambs  are  playing  in  the  field.  Oh,  I  wish  we  could  stop 
here,  and  walk  about  a  little !  Can't  we,  mama?" 


4  LADY   JANE. 

"  No,  my  dear ;  there  's  no  time  to  get  off,"  replied  the  mother, 
raising  her  head  and  looking  out  wearily.  "  Be  patient,  darling;  we 
shall  soon  be  in  New  Orleans,  and  there  you  shall  have  everything 
you  wish." 

The  train  had  stopped  at  a  small  station  on  the  Teche  to  take 
on  a  passenger,  who  entered  with  a  brisk  step,  and  slipped  into  a 
seat  just  vacated  opposite  the  mother  and  child.  He  was  a  handsome 
lad  of  about  sixteen  years.  His  merry  brown  eyes  looked  out  frankly 
from  under  his  dark  brows  ;  he  had  a  pleasant  smile,  and  the  manly, 
self-reliant  air  of  one  accustomed  to  travel  alone. 

In  one  hand  he  carried  a  traveling-bag,  and  in  the  other 
a  small  basket,  over  which  a  piece  of  thin  cloth  was  tightly  tied. 
He  sat  down,  glancing  around  him  with  a  bright  smile,  and  placing 
the  basket  beside  him,  tapped  on  the  thin  cover  with  his  forefinger, 
and  chirruped  merrily  to  the  occupant.  Presently  an  answering 
«  peep — peep  I "  came  from  the  depths  of  the  basket,  at  which  he 
laughed  heartily. 

From  the  first  moment  that  the  new  passenger  entered  the  car, 
the  little  yellow  head  of  the  child  was  turned  in  his  direction,  and  the 
deep  blue  eyes  were  fixed  on  him  with  an  expression  of  serious  interest. 

When  he  laughed  so  merrily,  her  lips  trembled  and  her  eyes 
filled  with  tears,  and  overcome  with  some  emotion  that  she  vainly 
tried  to  suppress,  she  buried  her  face  on  her  mother's  shoulder  and 
whispered  brokenly  : 

"  Oh,  mama,  mama,  he  laughs  as  papa  used  to." 
"  Hush,  hush,  my  darling  !  "  said  the  mother,  bending  an  agonized 
face  over  the  child,  while  she  soothed  her  gently ;  "  Don't  cry,  my 
love,  don't  cry,  or  I  shall  be  ill  again." 

In  an  instant  the  little  head  was  raised  resolutely,  and  the  child 
smiled  with  the  tears  glistening  on  her  lashes,  while  her  eyes  turned 
again  toward  the  stranger,  who  seemed  to  attract  her  greatly. 


LADY   JANE.  5 

The  boy  had  noticed  the  lovely  little  creature  and  the  sorrowful 
young  mother,  and  his  generous  heart  went  out  to  them  at  once ; 
therefore,  when  the  child  raised  her  tearful  eyes  and  looked  at  him 
so  earnestly,  he  smiled  responsively  and  invitingly. 

Again  the  little  head  went  shyly  down  to  the  mother's  shoulder, 
and  she  whispered : 

"  Mama,  there  's  something  alive  in  that  basket.  How  I  wish  I 
could  see  it !  " 

"  My  dear,  he 's  a  stranger.  I  can't  ask  him  to  show  it  to  you;  he 
might  not  be  willing." 

"  Oh,  I  think  he  would,  mama !  He  smiled  at  me  when  I  looked 
at  him.  Can't  /  ask  him  ?  Please, —  please  let  me." 

The  mother  turned  a  side  glance  in  the  direction  of  the  boy,  who 
moved  a  little  nearer  the  end  of  the  seat  and  looked  at  her  intelli 
gently,  as  if  he  understood  that  they  were  speaking  of  him.  Their 
eyes  met,  and  he  smiled  good-naturedly,  while  he  nodded  and  pointed 
to  the  basket.  "I  thought  she  would  like  to  see  it,"  he  said,  as  he 
began  untying  the  string  that  fastened  the  cover. 

"  You  're  very  kind  to  gratify  her  curiosity,"  said  the  mother,  in  a 
gentle  voice;  "she's  sure  that  it's  something  alive." 

"  It  is,"  laughed  the  boy.  "  It  's  very  much  alive ;  so  much  so 
that  I  'm  almost  afraid  to  take  off  the  cover." 

"  Go,  my  darling,  and  see  what  it  is,"  said  the  mother,  as  the  child 
slipped  past  her  and  stood  before  the  boy,  looking  at  him  from 
under  the  shadow  of  her  black  hat  with  eager,  inquiring  eyes. 

"  I  don't  think  you  Ve  ever  seen  anything  like  him  before.  They  're 
not  common,  and  he 's  a  funny  little  beggar.  I  thought  you  'd  like  to 
see  him  when  I  saw  you  looking  at  the  basket.  He  's  very  tame, 
but  we  must  be  careful  he  does  n't  get  out.  With  all  these  windows 
open,  he  'd  be  gone  before  we  knew  it.  Now  I  '11  lift  the  cover  and 
hold  my  hand  so  that  you  can  peep  in." 


6  LADY   JANE. 

The  child's  head  was  bent  over  the  basket,  intense  curiosity  in 
her  wide  eyes,  and  a  little,  anxious  smile  on  her  parted  lips.  "  Oh, 
oh,  how  pretty  !  What  is  it  ?  "  she  asked,  catching  a  glimpse  of 
a  strange-looking  bird,  with  a  very  long  bill  and  little,  bright  eyes, 
huddled  up  at  the  bottom  of  the  basket.  "  I  never  saw  one  like  it. 
What  is  it  ?  "  she  repeated,  her  sparkling  eyes  full  of  delight  and 
surprise. 

"  It  's  a  blue  heron,  and  they  're  very  rare  about  here." 

"  He  's  not  blue — not  very  blue ;  but  he  's  pretty.  I  wish  I  could 
just  touch  his  feathers." 

"  You  can.  You  can  put  your  hand  in  the  basket;  he  won't 
bite." 

"  I  'm  not  afraid,"  she  said  with  confidence,  as  she  stroked  the 
soft  feathers. 

"  If  these  windows  were  closed  I  'd  take  him  out,  and  let  you  see 
him  walk.  He's  very  funny  when  he  walks;  and  he  's  so  intelligent. 
Why,  he  comes  to  me  when  I  call  him." 

"  What  do  you  call  him?     What  is  his  name?" 

"  I  call  him  Tony,  because  when  he  was  very  small  he  made 
a  noise  like  'tone — tone." 

"Tony,"  she  repeated,  "that  's  a  pretty  name;  and  it  's  funny 
too,"  she  added,  dimpling  with  smiles. 

"  Now,  won't  you  tell  me  your  name?"  asked  the  boy.  "  I  don't 
mean  to  be  rude,  but  I  'd  like  to  know  your  name." 

"  Why,  yes,  I  '11  tell  you,"  she  replied,  with  charming  frankness; 
"I  'm  called  '  Lady  Jane.'" 

"Lady  Jane!"  repeated  the  boy;  "why,  that  's  a  very  odd 
name." 

"  Papa  always  called  me  Lady  Jane,  and  now  every  one  does/' 

The  mother  looked  at  the  child  sadly,  while  tears  dimmed 
her  eyes. 


LADY    JANE.  7 

"  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  see  the  little  fellow,  too,"  said  the 
boy,  rising  and  holding  the  basket  so  that  the  lady  could  look  into 
it.  "  White  herons  are  very  common  about  here,  but  blue  herons 
are  something  of  a  curiosity." 

"  Thank  you.  It  is  indeed  very  odd.  Did  you  find  it  yourself?  " 
she  asked  with  some  show  of  interest. 

"  Yes,  I  came  upon  it  quite  unexpectedly.  I  was  hunting  on  my 
uncle's  plantation,  just  beyond  the  station  where  I  got  on.  It  was 
almost  dark ;  and  I  was  getting  out  of  the  swamp  as  fast  as  I  could, 
when  right  under  my  feet  I  heard  'tone — tone/  and  there  was  this 
little  beggar,  so  young  that  he  could  n't  fly,  looking  up  at  me  with 
his  bright  eyes.  I  took  him  home  and  tamed  him,  and  now  he  knows 
my  voice  the  moment  I  speak.  He  's  very  amusing." 

The  boy  was  standing,  resting  the  basket  on  the  arm  of  the  seat, 
and  the  child  was  caressing  the  bird  with  both  dimpled  hands. 

"  She  likes  him  very  much,"  he  said,  smiling  brightly. 

"  Yes,  she  is  very  fond  of  pets;  she  has  left  hers  behind,  and  she 
misses  them,"  and  again  the  mother's  eyes  filled. 

"  I  wish, —  I  wish  you  'd  let  me  give  her  Tony — if — if  you  'd  like 
her  to  have  him." 

"  Oh,  thank  you !  No,  no,  I  could  n't  allow  you  to  deprive 
yourself." 

"  I  should  be  very  willing,  I  assure  you.  I  must  give  him  away. 
I  'm  going  to  give  him  to  some  one  when  I  get  to  the  city.  I  can't  take 
him  to  college  with  me,  and  there  's  no  one  in  particular  I  care  to  give 
him  to.  I  wish  you  'd  let  me  give  him  to  this  little  lady,"  urged 
the  handsome  fellow,  smiling  into  the  child's  upturned  eyes  as  he 
spoke. 

"  Oh,  mama, — dear,  sweet  mama,  let  me  have  him;  do,  do 
let  me  have  him!"  cried  Lady  Jane,  clasping  her  dimpled  hands  in 
entreaty. 


8  LADY   JANE. 

"  My  dear,  it  would  be  so  selfish  to  take  it.  You  must  not,  indeed 
you  must  not,"  said  the  mother,  looking  from  the  child  to  the  boy  in 
great  perplexity. 

"  But  if  I  wish  it —  if  it  would  be  a  pleasure  to  me/'  insisted  the 
boy,  flushing  with  eager  generosity. 

"  Well,  I  '11  think  of  it.  You  are  really  very  kind,"  she  replied 
wearily.  "  We  still  have  some  hours  to  decide  about  it.  I  find  it 
very  hard  to  refuse  the  child,  especially  when  you  are  so  generous, 
but  I  think  she  ought  not  to  take  it." 

The  boy  took  the  basket  with  a  disappointed  air,  and  turned 
toward  the  seat  opposite.  "  I  hope  you  '11  decide  to  let  her  have  it," 
he  said  respectfully. 

"  Mama,"  whispered  Lady  Jane  with  her  face  pressed  close  to 
her  mother's,  "if  you  can,  if  you  think  it's  right,  please  let  me  have 
the  blue  heron.  You  know,  I  had  to  leave  my  kitten,  and  Carlo,  and 
the  lambs,  and  —  and  —  I'm  so  sorry,  and  —  I'm  lonesome,  mama." 

"  My  darling,  my  darling, —  if  you  want  the  bird  so  much,  I  '11  try 
to  let  you  have  him.  I  '11  think  about  it." 

"  And,  mama,  may  I  go  and  sit  by  the  basket  and  put  my  hand 
on  his  feathers  ?  " 

"  Let  her  come  and  sit  with  me,"  said  the  boy  ;  "  she  seems  tired, 
and  I  may  be  able  to  amuse  her." 

"  Thank  you.  Yes,  she  is  very  tired.  We  have  come  a  long 
way, —  from  San  Antonio, —  and  she  's  been  very  good  and  patient." 
The  boy  made  room  for  his  charming  little  companion  next  the 
window,  and  after  lowering  the  blind,  so  that  the  bird  could  not 
escape,  he  took  the  pet  from  the  basket,  and  placed  him  in  Lady 
Jane's  arms. 

"  See  here,"  he  said,  "  I  Ve  sewed  this  band  of  leather  around  his 
leg,  and  you  can  fasten  a  strong  string  to  it.  If  your  mama  allows 
you  to  have  him,  you  can  always  tie  him  to  something  when  you  go 


LADY   JANE.  9 

out,  and  leave  him  alone,  and  he  will  be  there  quite  safe  when  you 
come  back." 

u  I  should  never  leave  him  alone.  I  should  keep  him  with  me 
always,"  said  the  child. 

"  But,  if  you  should  lose  him,"  continued  the  boy,  spreading  one 
of  the  pretty  wings  over  Lady  Jane's  plump  little  arm,  "  I  '11  tell  you 
how  you  can  always  know  him.  He's  marked.  It's  as  good  as  a 
brand.  See  those  three  black  crosses  on  his  wing  feathers.  As  he 
grows  larger  they  will  grow  too,  and  no  matter  how  long  a  time 
should  pass  without  your  seeing  him,  you  'd  always  know  him  by  these 
three  little  crosses." 

"  If  mama  says  I  can  have  him,  I  can  take  him  with  me, 
can't  I  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  this  basket  is  very  light.    You  can  carry  it  yourself." 

"  You  know,"  she  whispered,  glancing  at  her  mother,  who  had 
leaned  her  head  on  the  back  of  the  seat  in  front  of  her,  and  appeared 
to  be  sleeping,  "  I  want  to  see  Carlo  and  kitty,  and  the  ranch,  and 
all  the  lambs ;  but  I  must  n't  let  mama  know,  because  it  '11  make 
her  cry." 

"  You  're  a  good  little  girl  to  think  of  your  mother,"  said  the  boy, 
who  was  anxious  to  cultivate  her  confidence,  but  too  well-bred  to 
question  her. 

"  She  has  no  one  now  but  me  to  love  her,"  she  continued,  lowering 
her  voice.  "  They  took  papa  from  us,  and  carried  him  away,  and 
mama  says  he  '11  never  come  back.  He  's  not  gone  to  San 
Antonio,  he  's  gone  to  heaven  ;  and  we  can't  go  there  now.  We  're 
going  to  New  York;  but  I  'd  rather  go  to  heaven  where  papa  is,  only 
mama  says  there  are  no  trains  or  ships  to  take  us  there,  now,  but 
by-and-by  we  're  going  if  we  're  very  good." 

The  boy   listened   to   her   innocent  prattle  with   a  sad  smile, 
glancing    uneasily    now   and   then   at   the    mother,    fearful   lest  the 


10  LADY    JANE. 

plaintive  little  voice  might  reach  her  ear ;  but  she  seemed  to  be 
sleeping,  sleeping  uneasily,  and  with  that  hot  flush  still  burning  on 
her  cheeks. 

"  Have  you  ever  been  in  New  York  ?  "  he  asked,  looking  tenderly 
at  the  little  head  nestled  against  his  arm.  She  had  taken  off  her  hat, 
and  was  very  comfortably  curled  up  on  the  seat  with  Tony  in  her  lap. 
The  bird  also  seemed  perfectly  satisfied  with  his  position. 

"  Oh,  no ;  I  Ve  never  been  anywhere  only  on  the  ranch.  That 's 
where  Carlo,  and  kitty,  and  the  lambs  were,  and  my  pony,  Sun 
flower  ;  he  was  named  Sunflower,  because  he  was  yellow.  I  used  to 
ride  on  him,  and  papa  lifted  me  on,  and  took  me  off;  and  Sunflower 
was  so  gentle.  Dear  papa — I  —  I  loved  him  best  of  all  and  now 
he  's  gone  away,  and  I  can't  see  him  again." 

Here  the  rosy  little  face  was  buried  in  Tony's  feathers,  and 
something  like  a  sob  made  the  listener's  heart  ache. 

"  Come,  come,"  he  said  softly,  "you  must  n't  cry,  or  I  shall  think 
you  don't  care  for  the  blue  heron." 

In  a  moment,  her  little  head  was  raised,  and  a  smile  shone 
through  her  tears.  "  Oh,  I  do,  I  do.  And  if  I  can  have  him  I  won't 
cry  for  the  others." 

"  I  'm  quite  sure  your  mama  will  consent.  Now,  let  me  tell  you 
about  my  home.  I  live  in  New  Orleans,  and  I  have  lots  of  pets," 
and  the  boy  went  on  to  describe  so  many  delightful  things  that  the 
child  forgot  her  grief  in  listening ;  and  soon,  very  soon  the  weary 
little  head  drooped,  and  she  was  sleeping  with  her  rosy  cheek  pressed 
against  his  shoulder,  and  Tony  clasped  close  in  her  arms. 

And  so  the  long,  hot  afternoon  passed  away,  and  the  train  sped 
on  toward  its  destination,  while  the  mother  and  the  child  slept, 
happily  unconscious  of  the  strange  fate  that  awaited  them  in  that 
city,  of  which  the  spires  and  walls  were  even  now  visible,  bathed  in 
the  red  light  of  the  evening  sun. 


CHAPTER  II 

TONY  GOES  WITH  LADY  JANE 

AD  now  that  the  end  of  the  journey  was  so  near,  the  drowsy 
passengers  began  to  bestir  themselves.     In  order  to  look  a 
little  more  presentable,  dusty  faces  and  hands  were  hastily 
wiped,  frowsy  heads  were  smoothed,  tumbled  hats  and  bonnets  were 
arranged,  and  even  the  fretful  babies,  pulled  and  coaxed  into  shape, 
looked  less  miserable  in  their  soiled  garments,  while  their  mothers 
wore  an  expression  of  mingled  relief  and  expectation. 

Lady  Jane  did  not  open  her  eyes  until  her  companion  gently 
tried  to  disengage  Tony  from  her  clasp  in  order  to  consign  him  to 
his  basket ;  then  she  looked  up  with  a  smile  of  surprise  at  her  mother, 
who  was  bending  over  her.  "  Why,  mama,"  she  said  brightly,  "  I  Ve 
been  asleep,  and  I  had  such  a  lovely  dream ;  I  thought  I  was  at  the 
ranch,  and  the  blue  heron  was  there  too.  Oh,  I  'm  sorry  it  was  only 
a  dream ! " 

"  My  dear,  you  must  thank  this  kind  young  gentleman  for  his  care 
of  you.     We  are  near  New  Orleans  now,  and  the  bird  must  go  to  his 
basket.     Come,  let  me  smooth  your  hair  and  put  on  your  hat." 
"  But,  mama,  am  I  to  have  Tony  ?  " 

The  boy  was  tying  the  cover  over  the  basket,  and,  at  the  child's 
question,  he  looked  at  the  mother  entreatingly.      "  It  will  amuse  her," 
he  said,  "and  it'll  be  no  trouble.     May  she  have  it?  " 
"  I  suppose  I  must  consent ;  she  has  set  her  heart  on  it." 

The  boy  held  out  the  little  basket,  and  Lady  Jane  grasped  it 
rapturously. 


*2  LADY    JANE. 

"  Oh,  how  good  you  are)"  she  cried.  "  I  '11  never,  never  forget 
you,  and  I  '11  love  Tony  always." 

At  that  moment  the  young  fellow,  although  he  was  smiling  bright 
ly,  was  smothering  a  pang  of  regret,  not  at  parting  with  the  blue  heron, 
which  he  really  prized,  but  because  his  heart  had  gone  out  to  the 
charming  child,  and  she  was  about  to  leave  him,  without  any  certainty 
of  their  ever  meeting  again.  While  this  thought  was  vaguely  pass 
ing  through  his  mind,  the  lady  turned  and  said  to  him : 

"  I  am  going  to  Jackson  Street,  which  I  believe  is  uptown.  Is  there 
not  a  nearer  station  for  that  part  of  the  city,  than  the  lower  one  ?" 

"  Certainly,  you  can  stop  at  Gretna  ;  the  train  will  be  there  in  a 
few  minutes.  You  cross  the  river  there,  and  the  ferry-landing  is  at 
the  foot  of  Jackson  Street,  where  you  will  find  carriages  and  horse- 
cars  to  take  you  where  you  wish  to  go,  and  you  will  save  an  hour." 

"  I  Jm  very  glad  of  that;  my  friends  are  not  expecting  me,  and  I 
should  like  to  reach  them  before  dark.  Is  it  far  to  the  ferry?" 

"  Only  a  few  blocks  ;  you  '11  have  no  trouble  finding  it,"  and  he  was 
about  to  add,  "  Can't  I  go  with  you  and  show  you  the  way?"  when 
the  conductor  flung  open  the  door  and  bawled,  "  Grate-na  !  Grate-na! 
passengers  for  Grate-na !  " 

Before  he  could  give  expression  to  the  request,  the  conductor 
had  seized  the  lady's  satchel,  and  was  hurrying  them  toward  the 
door.  When  he  reached  the  platform,  the  train  had  stopped,  and  they 
had  already  stepped  off.  For  a  moment,  he  saw  them  standing  on  the 
dusty  road,  the  river  and  the  setting  sun  behind  them' — the  black- 
robed,  graceful  figure  of  the  woman,  and  the  fair-haired  child  with  her 
violet  eyes  raised  to  his,  while  she  clasped  the  little  basket  and 
smiled. 

He  touched  his  hat  and  waved  his  hand  in  farewell ;  the  mother 
lifted  her  veil  and  sent  him  a  sad  good-by  smile,  and  the  child 
pressed  her  rosy  fingers  to  her  lips,  and  gracefully  and  gravely  threw 


LADY    JANE.  13 

him  a  kiss.     Then  the  train  moved  on  ;  and  the  last  he  saw  of  them, 
they  were  walking  hand  in  hand  toward  the  river. 

As  the  boy  went  back  to  his  seat,  he  was  reproaching  himself 
for  his  neglect  and  stupidity.  "  Why  did  n't  I  find  out  her  name? — 
or  the  name  of  the  people  to  whom  she  was  going  ?  —  or  why  did  n't 
I  go  with  her  ?  It  was  too  bad  to  leave  her  to  cross  alone,  and  she 
a  stranger  and  looking  so  ill.  She  seemed  hardly  able  to  walk  and 
carry  her  bag.  I  don't  see  how  I  could  have  been  so  stupid.  It  would 
n't  have  been  much  out  of  my  way,  and,  if  I  'd  crossed  with  them,  I 
should  have  found  out  who  they  were.  I  did  n't  want  to  seem  too 
presuming,  and  especially  after  I  gave  the  child  the  heron  ;  but  I  wish 
I  'd  gone  with  them.  Oh,  she  's  left  something,"  and  in  an  instant 
he  was  reaching  under  the  seat  lately  occupied  by  the  object  of  his 
solicitude. 

"  It  's  a  book,   '  Daily  Devotions/  bound  in  russia^ilver  clasp, 
monogram  'J.  C.,'"  he  said,  as  he  opened  it;   "and  here  's  a  name." 

On  the  fly-leaf  was  written 

JANE  CHETWYND. 

From  Papa, 

NEW  YORK,  Christmas,  18 — . 

"'Jane  Chetwynd,'  that  must  be  the  mother.  It  can't  be  the 
child,  because  the  date  is  ten  years  ago.  'New  York.'  They  're  from 
the  North  then  ;  I  thought  they  were.  Hello  !  here  's  a  photograph." 
It  was  a  group,  a  family  group — the  father,  the  mother,  and  the 
child ;  the  father's  a  bright,  handsome,  almost  boyish  face,  the 
mother's  not  pale  and  tear-stained,  but  fresh  and  winsome,  with 
smiling  lips  and  merry  eyes,  and  the  child,  the  little  "  Lady  Jane," 
clinging  to  her  father's  neck,  two  years  younger,  perhaps,  but  the 
same  lovely,  golden-haired  child. 


14  LADY   JANE. 

The  boy's  heart  bounded  with  pleasure  as  he  looked  at  the  sweet 
little  face  that  had  such  a  fascination  for  him. 

"  I  wish  I  could  keep  it,"  he  thought,  "but  it's  not  mine,  and  I 
must  try  to  return  it  to  the  owner.  Poor  woman !  she  will  be  miser 
able  when  she  misses  it.  I  '11  advertise  it  to-morrow,  and  through  it 
I  'm  likely  to  find  out  all  about  them." 

Next  morning  some  of  the  readers  of  the  principal  New 
Orleans  journals  noticed  an  odd  little  advertisement  among  the 
personals  : 

Found,  "  Daily  Devotions " ;  bound  in  red  russia-leather,  silver  clasp,  with  mon 
ogram,  "J.  C."  Address, 

BLUE  HERON,  P.  O.  Box  1121. 

For  more  than  a  week  this  advertisement  remained  in  the 
columns  of  the  paper,  but  it  was  never  answered,  nor  was  the  book 
ever  claimed. 


M 


CHAPTER  III 

MADAME    JOZAIN 

ADAME  JOZAIN  was  a  Creole  of  mixed  French  and  Spanish  an 
cestry.  She  was  a  tall,  thin  woman  with  great,  soft  black 
eyes,  a  nose  of  the  hawk  type,  and  lips  that  made  a  narrow 
line  when  closed.  In  spite  of  her  forbidding  features,  the  upper  part 
of  her  face  was  rather  pleasing,  her  mild  eyes  had  a  gently  appealing 
expression  when  she  lifted  them  upward,  as  she  often  did,  and  no  one 
would  have  believed  that  the  owner  of  those  innocent,  candid  eyes 
could  have  a  sordid,  avaricious  nature,  unless  he  glanced  at  the  lower 
part  of  her  face,  which  was  decidedly  mean  and  disagreeable.  Her 
nose  and  mouth  had  a  wily  and  ensnaring  expression,  which  was  at 
the  same  time  cruel  and  rapacious.  Her  friends,  and  she  had  but 
few,  endowed  her  with  many  good  qualities,  while  her  enemies,  and 
they  were  numerous,  declared  that  she  was  but  little  better  than  a 
fiend  incarnate  ;  but  Father  Ducros,  her  confessor,  knew  that  she  was 
a  combination  of  good  and  evil,  the  evil  largely  predominating. 

With  this  strange  and  complex  character,  she  had  but  two  pas 
sions  in  life.  One  was  for  her  worthless  son,  Adraste,  and  the  other 
was  a  keen  desire  for  the  good  opinion  of  those  who  knew  her.  She 
always  wished  to  be  considered  something  that  she  was  not, —  young, 
handsome,  amiable,  pious,  and  the  best  blanchisseuse  de  fin  in  what 
ever  neighborhood  she  hung  out  her  sign. 

And  perhaps  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  that  she  felt  a  desire 
to  compensate  herself  by  duplicity  for  what  fate  had  honestly  deprived 
her  of,  for  no  one  living  had  greater  cause  to  complain  of  a  cruel 


16  LADY    JANE. 

destiny  than  had  Madame  Jozain.  Early  in  life  she  had  great  ex 
pectations.  An  only  child  of  a  well-to-do  baker,  she  inherited  quite 
a  little  fortune,  and*  when  she  married  the  debonnair  and  handsome 
Andre  Jozain,  she  intended,  by  virtue  of  his  renown  and  her  com 
petency,  to  live  like  a  lady.  He  was  a  politician,  and  a  power  in  his 
ward,  which  might  eventually  have  led  him  to  some  prominence ; 
but  instead,  this  same  agency  had  conducted  him,  by  dark  and  devious 
ways,  to  life-long  detention  in  the  penitentiary  of  his  State  —  not, 
however,  until  he  had  squandered  her  fortune,  and  lamed  her  for  life 
by  pushing  her  down-stairs  in  a  quarrel.  This  accident,  had  it  dis 
abled  her  arms,  might  have  incapacitated  her  from  becoming  a  blan- 
chisseuse  de  Jin,  which  occupation  she  was  obliged  to  adopt  when 
she  found  herself  deprived  of  her  husband's  support  by  the  too 
exacting  laws  of  his  country. 

In  her  times  of  despondency  it  was  not  her  husband's  disgrace, 
her  poverty,  her  lameness,  her  undutiful  son,  her  lost  illusions,  over 
which  she  mourned,  as  much  as  it  was  the  utter  futility  of  trying  to 
make  things  seem  better  than  they  were.  In  spite  of  all  her  painting, 
and  varnishing,  and  idealizing,  the  truth  remained  horribly  apparent: 
She  was  the  wife  of  a  convict,  she  was  plain,  and  old,  and  lame ;  she 
was  poor,  miserably  poor,  and  she  was  but  an  indifferent  blanchis- 
seuse  de  Jin,  while  Adraste,  or  Raste,  as  he  was  always  called,  was 
the  worst  boy  in  the  State.  If  she  had  ever  studied  the  interesting 
subject  of  heredity,  she  would  have  found  in  Raste  the  strongest  con 
firmation  in  its  favor,  for  he  had  inherited  all  his  father's  bad  qualities 
in  a  greater  degree.  , 

On  account  of  Raste's  unsavory  reputation  and  her  own  incom- 
petency,  she  was  constantly  moving  from  one  neighborhood  to 
another,  and,  by  a  natural  descent  in  the  scale  of  misfortune,  at  last 
found  herself  in  a  narrow  little  street,  in  the  little  village  of  Gretna, 
one  of  the  most  unlovely  suburbs  of  New  Orleans. 


MADAME   JOZAIN. 


LADY    JANE.  19 

The  small  one-story  house  she  occupied  contained  but  two 
rooms,  and  a  shed,  which  served  as  a  kitchen.  It  stood  close  to  the 
narrow  sidewalk,  and  its  green  door  was  reached  by  two  small  steps. 
Madame  Jozain,  dressed  in  a  black  skirt  and  a  white  sack,  sat  upon 
these  steps  in  the  evening  and  gossiped  with  her  neighbor.  The 
house  was  on  the  corner  of  the  street  that  led  to  the  ferry,  and  her 
greatest  amusement  (for,  on  account  of  her  lameness,  she  could  not 
run  with  the  others  to  see  the  train  arrive)  was  to  sit  on  her  door 
step  and  watch  the  passengers  walking  by  on  their  way  to  the  river. 

On  this  particular  hot  July  evening,  she  felt  very  tired,  and  very 
cross.  Her  affairs  had  gone  badly  all  day.  She  had  not  succeeded 
with  some  lace  she  had  been  doing  for  Madame  Joubert,  the  wife  of 
the  grocer,  on  the  levee,  and  Madame  Joubert  had  treated  her  crossly 
—  in  fact  had  condemned  her  work,  and  refused  to  take  it  until  made 
up  again ;  and  Madame  Jozain  needed  the  money  sorely.  She  had 
expected  to  be  paid  for  the  work,  but  instead  of  paying  her  that 
" little  cat  of  a  Madame  Joubert"  had  fairly  insulted  her.  She, 
Madame  Jozain,  nee  Bergeron.  The  Bergerons  were  better  than 
the  Jouberts.  Her  father  had  been  one  of  the  City  Council,  and  had 
died  rich,  and  her  husband  —  well,  her  husband  had  been  unfortunate, 
but  he  was  a  gentleman,  while  the  Jouberts  were  common  and  always 
had  been.  She  would  get  even  with  that  proud  little  fool ;  she  would 
punish  her  in  some  way.  Yes,  she  would  do  her  lace  over,  but  she 
would  soak  it  in  soda,  so  that  it  would  drop  to  pieces  the  first  time 
it  was  worn. 

Meantime  she  was  tired  and  hungry,  and  she  had  nothing  in  the 
house  but  some  coffee  and  cold  rice.  She  had  given  Raste  her  last 
dime,  and  he  had  quarreled  with  her  and  gone  off  to  play  "craps" 
with  his  chums  on  the  levee.  Besides,  she  was  very  lonesome,  for 
there  was  but  one  house  on  her  left,  and  beyond  it  was  a  wide 
stretch  of  pasture,  and  opposite  there  was  nothing  but  the  blank 


20  LADY    JANE. 

walls  of  a  row  of  warehouses  belonging  to  the  railroad,  and  her  only 
neighbor,  the  occupant  of  the  next  cottage,  had  gone  away  to  spend 
a  month  with  a  daughter  who  lived  "down  town,"  on  the  other  side 
of  the  river. 

So,  as  she  sat  there  alone,  she  looked  around  her  with  an 
expression  of  great  dissatisfaction,  yawning  wearily,  and  wishing 
that  she  was  not  so  lame,  so  that  she  could  run  out  to  the  station, 
and  see  what  was  going  on:  and  that  boy,  Raste,  she  wondered  if 
he  was  throwing  away  her  last  dime.  He  often  brought  a  little 
money  home.  If  he  did  not  bring  some  now,  they  would  have  no 
breakfast  in  the  morning. 

Then  the  arriving  train  whistled,  and  she  straightened  up  and 
her  face  took  on  a  look  of  expectancy. 

"  Not  many  passengers  to-night,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  a  few 
men  hurried  by  with  bags  and  bundles.  "They  nearly  all  go  to 
the  lower  ferry,  now." 

In  a  moment  they  had  all  passed,  and  the  event  of  the  evening 
was  over.  But  no! — and  she  leaned  forward  and  peered  up  the 
street  with  fresh  curiosity.  "Why,  here  come  a  lady  and  a  lit 
tle  girl,  and  they  're  not  hurrying  at  all.  She  '11  lose  the  ferry  if 
she  does  n't  mind.  I  wonder  what  ails  her? — she  walks  as  if  she 
could  n't  see." 

Presently  the  two  reached  her  corner,  a  lady  in  mourning,  and 
a  little  yellow-haired  girl  carefully  holding  a  small  basket  in  one  hand, 
while  she  clung  to  her  mother's  gown  with  the  other. 

Madame  Jozain  noticed,  before  the  lady  reached  her,  that  she 
tottered  several  times,  as  if  about  to  fall,  and  put  out  her  hand,  as  if 
seeking  for  some  support.  She  seemed  dizzy  and  confused,  and  was 
passing  on  by  the  corner,  when  the  child  said  entreatingly,  "  Stop 
here  a  minute,  mama,  and  rest."  Then  the  woman  lifted  her  veil 
and  saw  Madame  Jozain  looking  up  at  her,  her  soft  eyes  full' of 
compassion. 


LADY   JANE.  21 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  rest  here  a  moment  ?  I  'm  ill  and  a  little 
faint, —  perhaps  you  will  give  me  a  glass  of  water  ?  " 

"  Why,  certainly,  my  dear,"  said  madame,  getting  up  alertly,  in 
spite  of  her  lameness.  "  Come  in  and  sit  down  in  my  rocking-chair. 
You  're  too  late  for  the  ferry.  It  '11  be  gone  before  you  get  there,  and 
you  may  as  well  be  comfortable  while  you  wait  —  come  right  in." 

The  exhausted  woman  entered  willingly.  The  room  was  neat 
and  cool,  and  a  large  white  bed,  which  was  beautifully  clean,  for 
madame  prided  herself  upon  it,  looked  very  inviting. 

The  mother  sank  into  a  chair,  and  dropped  her  head  on  the  bed  ; 
the  child  set  down  the  basket  and  clung  to  her  mother  caressingly, 
while  she  looked  around  with  timid,  anxious  eyes. 

Madame  Jozain  hobbled  off  for  a  glass  of  water  and  a  bottle  of 
ammonia,  which  she  kept  for  her  laces;  then,  with  gentle,  deft  hands, 
she  removed  the  bonnet  and  heavy  veil,  and  bathed  the  poor  woman's 
hot  forehead  and  burning  hands,  while  the  child  clung  to  her  mother 
murmuring,  "  Mama,  dear  mama,  does  your  head  ache  now  ?" 

"I  'm  better  now,  darling,"  the  mother  replied  after  a  few  moments  ; 
then  turning  to  madame,  she  said  in  her  sweet,  soft  tones,  "Thank 
you  so  much.  I  feel  quite  refreshed.  The  heat  and  fatigue  exhausted 
my  strength.  I  should  have  fallen  in  the  street  had  it  not  been  for 
you." 

"  Have  you  traveled  far  ?  "  asked  madame,  gently  sympathetic. 

"  From  San  Antonio,  and  I  was  ill  when  I  started ;  "  and  again 
she  closed  her  eyes  and  leaned  her  head  against  the  back  of  the  chair. 
At  the  first  glance,  madame  understood  the  situation.  She  saw, 
from  the  appearance  of  mother  and  child,  that  they  were  not  poor. 
In  this  accidental  encounter  was  a  possible  opportunity,  but  how  far 
she  could  use  it  she  could  not  yet  determine;  so  she  said  only, 
"  That  's  a  long  way  to  come  alone  "  ;  then  she  added,  in  a  casual 
tone,  "  especially  when  one  's  ill." 


22  LADY   JANE. 

The  lady  did  not  reply,  and  madame  went  on  tentatively,  "  Per 
haps  some  one 's  waiting  for  you  on  the  other  side,  and  '11  come  back 
on  the  ferry  to  see  what  's  become  of  you." 

"  No.  No  one  expects  me ;  I'm  on  my  way  to  New  York.  I 
have  a  friend  living  on  Jackson  Street.  I  thought  I  would  go  there 
and  rest  a  day  or  so  ;  but  I  did  wrong  to  get  off  the  train  here.  I 
was  not  able  to  walk  to  the  ferry.  I  should  have  gone  on  to  the 
lower  station,  and  saved  myself  the  exertion  of  walking." 

"Well,  don't  mind  now,  dear,"  returned  madame,  soothingly. 
"Just  rest  a  little,  and  when  it's  time  for  the  boat  to  be  back,  I  '11  go 
on  down  to  the  ferry  with  you.  It  's  only  a  few  steps,  and  I  can 
hobble  that  far.  I  '11  see  you  safe  on  board,  and  when  you  get 
across,  you  '11  find  a  carriage." 

"  Thank  you,  you  're  very  good.  I  should  like  to  get  there  as 
soon  as  possible,  for  I  feel  dreadfully  ill,"  and  again  the  weary  eyes 
closed,  and  the  heavy  head  fell  back  against  its  resting-place. 

Madame  Jozain  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  seriously  and  si 
lently  ;  then  she  turned,  smiling  sweetly  on  the  child.  "  Come  here, 
my  dear,  and  let  me  take  off  your  hat  and  cool  your  head  while  you  're 
waiting." 

"  No,  thank  you,  I  'm  going  with  mama." 

"  Oh,  yes,  certainly;  but  won't  you  tell  me  your  name?" 

ct  My  name  is  Lady  Jane,"  she  replied  gravely. 

"  Lady  Jane  ?  Well,  I  declare,  that  just  suits  you,  for  you  are 
a  little  lady,  and  no  mistake.  Are  n't  you  tired,  and  warm  ?  " 

"  I  'm  very  hungry ;    I  want  my  supper,"  said  the  child  frankly. 

Madame  winced,  remembering  her  empty  cupboard,  but  went  on 
chatting  cheerfully  to  pass  away  the  time. 

Presently  the  whistle  of  the  approaching  ferry-boat  sounded;  the 
mother  put  on  her  bonnet,  and  the  child  took  the  bag  in  one  hand,  and 
the  basket  in  the  other.  "  Come,  mama,  let  us  go,"  she  cried  eagerly. 


LADY   JANE.  23 

"  Dear,  dear,"  said  madame,  solicitously,  "but  you  look  so  white 
and  sick.  I  'm  afraid  you  can't  get  to  the  ferry  even  with  me  to  help 
you.  I  wish  my  Raste  was  here  ;  he 's  so  strong,  he  could  carry  you 
if  you  gave  out." 

"  I  think  I  can  walk;  I'll  try,"  and  the  poor  woman  staggered  to 
her  feet,  only  to  fall  back  into  Madame  Jozain's  arms  in  a  dead  faint. 


CHAPTER  IV 

AN    INTERRUPTED    JOURNEY 

FOR  a  moment,  madame  debated  on  what  was  best  to  be  done; 
then,  finding  herself  equal  to  the  emergency,  she  gently  laid 
the  unconscious  woman  on  the  bed,  unfastened  her  dress,  and 
slowly  and  softly  removed  her  clothing.   Although  madame  was  lame, 
she  was  very  strong,  and  in  a  few  moments  the  sufferer  was  resting 
between  the  clean,  cool  sheets,  while  her  child  clung  to  her  cold 
hands  and  sobbed  piteously. 

"  Don't  cry,  my  little  dear,  don't  cry.  Help  me  to  bathe  your 
mama's  face ;  help  me  like  a  good  child,  and  stie  '11  be  better  soon, 
now  she  's  comfortable  and  can  rest." 

With  the  thought  that  she  could  be  of  some  assistance,  Lady 
Jane  struggled  bravely  to  swallow  her  sobs,  took  off  her  hat  with 
womanly  gravity,  and  prepared  herself  to  assist  as  nurse. 

"  Here  's  smelling  salts,  and  cologne- water,"  she  said,  opening 
her  mother's  bag.  "  Mama  likes  this  ;  let  me  wet  her  handkerchief." 
'Madame  Jozain,  watching  the  child's  movements,  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  silver  fittings  of  the  bag,  and  of  a  bulging  pocket- 
book  within  it,  and,  while  the  little  girl  was  hanging  over  her 
mother,  she  quietly  removed  the  valuables  to  the  drawer  of  her 
armoire,  which  she  locked,  and  put  the  key  in  her  bosom. 

"  I  must  keep  these  things  away  from  Raste,"  she  said  to  herself; 
"he  's  so  thoughtless  and  impulsive,  he  might  take  them  without 
considering  the  consequences." 


LADY   JANE.  25 

For  some  time  madame  bent  over  the  stranger,  using  every 
remedy  she  knew  to  restore  her  to  consciousness,  while  the  child 
assisted  her  with  thoughtfulness  and  self-control,  really  surpris 
ing  in  one  of  her  age.  Sometimes  her  hot  tears  fell  on  her 
mother's  white  face,  but  no  sob  or  cry  escaped  her  little  quivering 
lips,  while  she  bathed  the  pale  forehead,  smoothed  the  beautiful 
hair,  and  rubbed  the  soft,  cold  hands. 

At  length,  with  a  shiver  and  a  convulsive  groan,  the  mother 
partly  opened  her  eyes,  but  there  was  no  recognition  in  their  dull 
gaze. 

"  Mama,  dear,  dear  mama,  are  you  better?"  implored  the  child, 
as  she  hung  over  her  and  kissed  her  passionately. 

"You  see  she  's  opened  her  eyes,  so  she  must  be  better;  but 
she  's  sleepy,"  said  madame  gently.  "  Now,  my  little  dear,  all  she 
needs  is  rest,  and  you  must  n't  disturb  her.  You  must  be  very 
quiet,  and  let  her  sleep.  Here  's  some  nice,  fresh  milk  the  milkman 
has  just  brought.  Won't  you  eat  some  rice  and  milk,  and  then  lew 
me  take  off  your  clothes,  and  bathe  you,  and  you  can  slip  on  your 
little  nightgown  that  's  in  your  mother's  bag ;  and  then  you  can  lie 
down  beside  her  and  sleep  till  morning,  and  in  the  morning  you  '11 
both  be  well  and  nicely  rested." 

Lady  Jane  agreed  to  madame's  arrangements  with  perfect 
docility,  but  she  would  not  leave  her  mother,  who  had  fallen  into  a 
heavy  stupor,  and  appeared  to  be  resting  comfortably. 

"  If  you  '11  please  to  let  me  sit  by  the  bed  close  to  mama  and  eat 
the  rice  and  milk,  I  '11  take  it,  for  I  'm  very  hungry." 

"  Certainly,  my  dear;  you  can  sit  there  and  hold  her  hand  all  the 
time;  I  '11  put  your  supper  on  this  little  table  close  by  you." 

And  madame  bustled  about,  apparently  overflowing  with  kindly 
attentions.  She  watched  the  child  eat  the  rice  and  milk,  smiling 
benevolently  the  while  ;  then  she  bathed  her,  and  put  on  the  fine 


26  LADY   JANE. 

little  nightgown,  braided  the  thick  silken  hair,  and  was  about  to  lift 
her  up  beside  her  mother,  when  Lady  Jane  exclaimed  in  a  shocked 
voice  : 

"  You  must  n't  put  me  to  bed  yet;  I  have  n't  said  my  prayers." 
Her  large  eyes  were  full  of  solemn  reproach  as  she  slipped  from 
madame's  arms  down  to  the  side  of  the  bed.  "  Mama  can't  hear 
them,  because  she  's  asleep,  but  God  can,  for  he  never  sleeps." 
Then  she  repeated  the  touching  little  formula  that  all  pious  mothers 
teach  their  children,  adding  fervently  several  times,  "and  please 
make  dear  mama  well,  so  that  we  can  leave  this  place  early  to 
morrow  morning." 

Madame  smiled  grimly  at  the  last  clause  of  the  petition,  and  a 
great  many  curious  thoughts  whirled  through  her  brain. 

As  the  child  rose  from  her  knees  her  eyes  fell  on  the  basket 
containing  the  blue  heron,  which  stood  quite  neglected,  just  where 
she  placed  it  when  her  mother  fainted. 

"Oh,  oh!"  she  cried,  springing  toward  it.  "Why,  I  forgot  it! 
My  Tony,  my  dear  Tony ! " 

"  What  is  it  ? "  asked  madame,  starting  back  in  surprise  at  the 
rustling  sound  within  the  basket.  "Why,  it 's  something  alive  !  " 

"  Yes,  it 's  alive,"  said  Lady  Jane,  with  a  faint  smile.  "  It  's  a 
bird,  a  blue  heron.  Such  a  nice  boy  gave  it  to  me  on  the  cars." 

"  Ah,"  ejaculated  madame,  "a  boy  gave  it  to  you;  some  one  you 
knew?" 

"  No,  I  never  saw  him  before." 

"  Don't  you  know  his  name  ?  " 

"  That  's  funny,"  and  the  child  laughed  softly  to  herself.  "  No,  I 
don't  know  his  name.  I  never  thought  to  ask;  besides  he  was  a 
stranger,  and  it  would  n't  have  been  polite,  you  know." 

"  No,  it  would  n't  have  been  polite,"  repeated  madame.  "  But 
what  are  you  going  to  do  with  this  long-legged  thing  ?  " 


LADY    JANE.  2J 

"  It's  not  a  thing.  It's  a  blue  heron,  and  they  're  very  rare,"  re 
turned  the  child  stoutly. 

She  had  untied  the  cover  and  taken  the  bird  out  of  the  basket, 
and  now  stood  in  her  nightgown  and  little  bare  feet,  holding  it  in  her 
arms,  and  stroking  the  feathers  softly,  while  she  glanced  every  mo 
ment  toward  the  bed. 

"  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  him  to-night.  I  know 
he  's  hungry  and  thirsty,  and  I  'm  afraid  to  let  him  out  for  fear  he  '11 
get  away  " ;  and  she  raised  her  little  anxious  face  to  madame  inquir 
ingly,  for  she  felt  overburdened  with  her  numerous  responsibilities. 

"  Oh,  I  know  what  we  '11  do  with  him,"  said  madame,  alertly  -r- 
she  was  prepared  for  every  emergency.  "I  Ve  a  fine  large  cage. 
It  was  my  parrot's  cage  ;  he  was  too  clever  to  live,  so  he  died  a  while 
ago,  and  his  empty  cage  is  hanging  in  the  kitchen.  I  '11  get  it,  and 
you  can  put  your  bird  in  it  for  to-night,  and  we  '11  feed  him  and  give 
him  water ;  he  '11  be  quite  safe,  so  you  need  n't  worry  about  him." 

"  Thank  you  very  much,"  said  Lady  Jane,  with  more  politeness 
than  warmth.  "  My  mama  will  thank  you,  too,  when  she  wakes." 

After  seeing  Tony  safely  put  in  the  cage,  with  a  saucer  of  rice 
for  his  supper,  and  a  cup  of  water  to  wash  it  down,  Lady  Jane  climbed 
up  on  the  high  bed,  and  not  daring  to  kiss  her  mother  good-night 
lest  she  might  disturb  her,  she  nestled  close  to  her.  Worn  out  with 
fatigue,  she  was  soon  sleeping  soundly  and  peacefully. 

For  some  time  Madame  Jozain  sat  by  the  bed,  watching  the  sick 
stranger,  and  wondering  who  she  was,  and  whether  her  sudden  illness 
was  likely  to  be  long  and  serious.  "  If  I  could  keep  her  here,  and 
nurse  her,"  she  thought,  "  no  doubt  she  would  pay  me  well.  I  'd 
rather  nurse  than  do  lace ;  and  if  she  's  very  bad  she  'd  better  not  be 
moved.  I  'd  take  good  care  of  her,  and  make  her  comfortable ;  and 
if  she  's  no  friends  about  here  to  look  after  her,  she  'd  be  better  off 
with  me  than  in  the  hospital.  Yes,  it  would  be  cruel  to  send  her  to 


28  LADY   JANE. 

the  hospital.  Ladies  don't  like  to  go  there.  It  looks  to  me  as  if 
she  's  going  to  have  a  fever,"  and  madame  laid  her  fingers  on  the 
burning  hand  and  fluttering  pulse  of  the  sleeper.  "  This  is  n't 
healthy,  natural  sleep.  I  Ve  nursed  too  many  with  fever,  not  to 
know.  I  doubt  if  she  '11  come  to  her  senses  again.  If  she  does  n't  no 
one  will  ever  know  who  she  is,  and  I  may  as  well  have  the  benefit 
of  nursing  her  as  any  one  else ;  but  I  must  be  careful,  I  must  n't  let 
her  lie  here  and  die  without  a  doctor.  That  would  never  do.  If 
she  's  not  better  in  the  morning  I  '11  send  for  Doctor  Debrot ;  I  know 
he  '11  be  glad  to  come,  for  he  never  has  any  practice  to  speak  of  now, 
he  's  so  old  and  stupid ;  he  's  a  good  doctor,  and  I  'd  feel  safe  to 
have  him." 

After  a  while  she  got  up  and  went  out  on  the  doorstep  to  wait 
for  Raste.  The  night  was  very  quiet,  a  fresh  breeze  cooled  the 
burning  heat,  the  stars  ^hone  brightly  and  softly,  and  as  she  sat 
there  alone  and  lifted  her  mild  eyes  toward  the  sky  no  one  would 
have  dreamed  of  the  strange  thoughts  that  were  passing  through 
her  mind.  Now  she  was  neither  hungry  nor  lonesome ;  a  sudden 
excitement  thrilled  her  through  and  through.  She  was  about  to 
engage  in  a  project  that  might  compensate  her  for  all  her  mis 
fortunes.  The  glimpse  she  had  of  money,  of  valuables,  of  possible 
gain,  awakened  all  her  cupidity.  The  only  thing  she  cared  for 
now  was  money.  She  hated  work,  she  hated  to  be  at  the  beck 
and  call  of  those  she  considered  beneath  her.  What  a  gratifica 
tion  it  would  be  to  her  to  refuse  to  do  Madame  Joubert's  lace,  to 
fling  it  at  her,  and  tell  her  to  take  it  elsewhere!  With  a  little 
ready  money,  she  could  be  so  independent  and  so  comfortable. 
Raste  had  a  knack  of  getting  together  a  great  deal  in  one  way 
and  another.  He  was  lucky;  if  he  had  a  little  to  begin  with  he 
could,  perhaps,  make  a  fortune.  Then  she  started,  and  looked 
around  as  one  might  who  suddenly  found  himself  on  the  brink  of 


LADY    JANE. 


29 


an  awful  chasm.  From  within  she  heard  the  sick  stranger  moan 
and  toss  restlessly ;  then,  in  a  moment,  all  was  quiet  again.  Pres 
ently,  she  began  to  debate  in  her  mind  how  far  she  should  admit 
Raste  to  her  confidence.  Should  she  let  him  know  about  the  money 
and  valuables  she  had  hidden?  The  key  in  her  bosom  seemed  to 
burn  like  a  coal  of  fire.  No,  she  would  not  tell  him  about  the  money. 
While  taking  the  child's  nightgown 
from  the  bag,  she  had  discovered  the 
railroad  tickets,  two  baggage  checks, 
and  a  roll  of  notes  and  loose  change 
in  a  little  compartment  of  the  bag. 
He  would  think  that  was  all ;  and  she 
would  never  tell  him  of  the  other. 

At  that  moment,  she  heard  him 
coming  down  the  street,  singing  a 
rollicking  song.  So  she  got  up,  and 
hobbled  toward  him,  for  she  feared  he 
might  waken  the  sleepers.  He  was 
a  great  overgrown,  red-faced,  black-eyed  fellow,  coarse  and  strong, 
with  a  loud,  dashing  kind  of  beauty,  and  he  was  very  observing, 
and  very  shrewd.  She  often  said  he  had  all  his  father's  cunning 
and  penetration,  therefore  she  must  disguise  her  plans  carefully. 

"  Hallo,  mum,"  he  said,  as  he  saw  her  limping  toward  him,  her 
manner  eager,  her  face  rather  pale  and  excited;  "what  's  up  now?" 
It  was  unusual  for  her  to  meet  him  in  that  way. 

"  Hush,  hush,  Raste.  Don't  make  a  noise.  Such  a  strange  thing 
has  happened  since  you  went  out!"  said  madame,  in  a  low  voice. 
"  Sit  down  here  on  the  steps,  and  I  '11  tell  you." 

Then  briefly,  and  without  much  show  of  interest,  she  told  him 
of  the  arrival  of  the  strangers,  and  of  the  young  woman's  sudden 
illness. 


RASTE.' 


3°  LADY   JANE. 

"  And  they  're  in  there  asleep,"  he  said,  pointing  with  his  thumb 
in  the  direction  of  the  room.  "  That 's  a  fine  thing  for  you  to  do  —  to 
saddle  yourself  with  a  sick  woman  and  a  child." 

"  What  could  I  do  ?  "  asked  madame  indignantly.  "  You  would  n't 
have  me  turn  a  fainting  woman  into  the  street?  It  won't  cost  any 
thing  for  her  to  sleep  in  my  bed  to-night." 

"  What  is  she  like  ?  Is  she  one  of  the  poor  sort  ?  Did  you  look 
over  her  traps  ?  Has  she  got  any  money  ?  "  he  asked  eagerly. 

"  Oh,  Raste,  Raste  ;  as  if  I  searched  her  pockets  !  She  's  beauti 
fully  dressed,  and  so  is  the  child.  She  's  got  a  fine  watch  and  chain, 
and  when  I  opened  her  bag  to  get  the  child's  nightgown,  I  saw  that 
it  was  fitted  up  with  silver." 

"  What  luck  !  "  exclaimed  Raste  brightly.  "  Then  she  's  a  swell, 
and  to-morrow  when  she  goes  away  she  '11  give  you  as  much  as  a 
'fiver.'" 

"  I  don't  believe  she  '11  be  able  to  go  to-morrow.  I  think  she  's 
down  for  a  long  sickness.  If  she  's  no  better  in  the  morning,  I  want 
you  to  cross  and  find  Dr.  Debrot." 

"  Old  Debrot?  That 's  fun  !  Why,  he  's  no  good -he  '11  kill  her." 

"  Nonsense ;  you  know  he  's  one  of  the  best  doctors  in  the  city." 

"  Sometimes,  yes.  But  you  can't  keep  the  woman  here,  if  she  's 
sick;  you  '11  have  to  send  her  to  the  hospital.  And  you  did  n't  find 
out  her  name,  nor  where  she  belongs  ?  Suppose  she  dies  on  your 
hands  ?  What  then  ?  " 

"  If  I  take  care  of  her  and  she  dies,  I  can't  help  it;  and  I  may  as 
well  have  her  things  as  any  one  else." 

"  But  has  she  got  anything  worth  having?  Enough  to  pay  you 
for  your  trouble  and  expense?"  he  asked.  Then  he  whistled  softly, 
and  added,  "  Oh,  mum,  you  're  a  deep  one,  but  I  see  through  you." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  boy,"  said  madame,  indignantly. 
"  Of  course,  if  I  nurse  the  woman,  and  give  up  my  bed  to  her,  I 


LADY   JANE.  31 

expect  to  be  paid.     I  hate  to  send  her  to  the  hospital,  and  I  don't 
know  her  name,  nor  the  name  of  her  friends.     So  what  can  I  do  ? " 

"  Do  just  what  you  Ve  planned  to  do,  mum.     Go  right  ahead, 
but  be  careful  and  cover  up  your  tracks.     Do  you  understand  ?  " 

Madame  made  no  reply  to  this  disinterested  piece  of  advice, 
but  sat  silently  thinking  for  some  time.  At  last  she  said  in  a  per 
suasive  tone,  "  Did  n't  you  bring  some  money  from  the  levee?  I  Ve 
had  no  supper,  and  I  intend  to  sit  up  all  night  with  that  poor  woman. 
Can't  you  go  to  Joubert's  and  get  me  some  bread  and  cheese  ?  " 

"  Money,  money — look  here  !  "  and  the  young  scapegrace  pulled 
out  a  handful  of  silver.     "  That  's  what  I  Ve  brought." 

An  hour  later  madame  and  Raste  sat  in  the  little  kitchen, 
chatting  over  their  supper  in  the  most  friendly  way ;  while  the 
sick  woman  and  the  child  still  slept  profoundly  in  the  small  front 
room. 


CHAPTER  V 

LAST    DAYS    AT    GRETNA 

THE  next  morning,  Madame  Jozain  sent  Raste  across  the  river 
for  Dr.  Debrot,  for  the  sick  woman  still  lay  in  a  heavy  stupor, 
her  dull  eyes  partly  closed,  her  lips  parched  and  dry,  and  the 
crimson  flush  of  fever  burning  on  cheek  and  brow. 

Before  Raste  went,  Madame  Jozain  took  the  traveling  bag  into 
the  kitchen,  and  together  they  examined  its  contents.  There  were  the 
two  baggage-checks,  the  tickets  and  money,  besides  the  usual  articles 
of  clothing,  and  odds  and  ends;  but  there  was  no  letter,  nor  card,  nor 
name,  except  the  monogram,  J.  C.,  on  the  silver  fittings,  to  assist  in 
establishing  the  stranger's  identity. 

"  Had  n't  I  better  take  these,"  said  Raste,  slipping  the  baggage- 
checks  into  his  pocket,  "and  have  her  baggage  sent  over?  When 
she  comes  to,  you  can  tell  her  that  she  and  the  young  one  needed 
clothes,  and  you  thought  it  was  best  to  get  them.  You  can  make 
that  all  right  when  she  gets  well,"  and  Raste  smiled  knowingly  at 
madame,  whose  face  wore  an  expression  of  giave  solicitude  as 
she  said : 

"  Hurry,  my  son,  and  bring  the  doctor  back  with  you.  I  'm  so 
anxious  about  the  poor  thing,  and  I  dread  to  have  the  child  wake 
and  find  her  mother  no  better." 

When  Doctor  Debrot  entered  Madame  Jozain's  front  room,  his 
head  was  not  as  clear  as  it  ought  to  have  been,  and  he  did  not 
observe  anything  peculiar  in  the  situation.  He  had  known  madame, 
more  or  less,  for  a  number  of  years,  and  he  might  be  considered  one 


LADY    JANE.  33 

of  the  friends  who  thought  well  of  her.  Therefore,  he  never  sus 
pected  that  the  young  woman  lying  there  in  a  stupor  was  any 
other  than  the  relative  from  Texas  madame  represented  her  to 
be.  And  she  was  very  ill,  of  that  there  could  be  no  doubt ;  so  ill 
as  to  awaken  all  the  doctor's  long  dormant  professional  ambition. 
There  were  new  features  in  the  case ;  the  fever  was  peculiar.  It 
might  have  been  produced  by  certain  conditions  and  localities. 
It  might  be  contagious,  it  might  not  be,  he  could  not  say ;  but  of 
one  thing  he  was  certain,  there  would  be  no  protracted  struggle, 
the  crisis  would  arrive  very  soon.  She  would  either  be  better  or 
beyond  help  in  a  few  days,  and  it  was  more  than  likely  that  she 
would  never  recover  consciousness.  He  would  do  all  he  could  to 
save  her,  and  he  knew  Madame  Jozain  was  an  excellent  nurse ;  she 
had  nursed  with  him  through  an  epidemic.  The  invalid  could  not 
be  in  better  hands.  Then  he  wrote  a  prescription,  and  while  he  was 
giving  madame  some  general  directions,  he  patted  kindly  the  golden 
head  of  the  lovely  child,  who  leaned  over  the  bed  with  her  large, 
solemn  eyes  fixed  on  her  mother's  face,  while  her  little  hands  caressed 
the  tangled  hair  and  burning  cheeks. 

"  Her  child?  "  he  asked,  looking  sadly  at  the  little  creature. 

"  Yes,  the  only  one.     She  takes  it  hard.     I  really  don't  know 
what  to  do  with  her." 

"  Poor  lamb,  poor  lamb  ! "  he  muttered,  as  madame  hurried  him  to 
the  door. 

Shortly  after  the  doctor  left,  there  was  a  little  ripple  of  excite 
ment,  which  entered  even  into  the  sick-room  —  the  sound  of  wheels, 
and  Raste  giving  orders  in  a  subdued  voice,  while  two  large,  hand 
some  trunks  were  brought  in  and  placed  in  the  corner  of  the  back 
apartment.  These  two  immense  boxes  looked  strangely  out  of  place 
amid  their  humble  surroundings ;  and  when  madame  looked  at  them 
she  almost  trembled,  thinking  of  the  difficulty  of  getting  rid  of  such 


34  LADY    JANE. 

witnesses  should  a  day  of  reckoning  ever  come.  When  the  little 
green  door  closed  on  them,  it  seemed  as  if  the  small  house  had 
swallowed  up  every  trace  of  the  mother  and  child,  and  that  their 
identity  was  lost  forever. 

For  several  days  the  doctor  continued  his  visits,  in  a  more  or 
less  lucid  condition,  and  every  day  he  departed  with  a  more  dejected 
expression  on  his  haggard  face.  He  saw  almost  from  the  first  that 
the  case  was  hopeless ;  and  his  heart  (for  he  still  had  one)  ached  for 
the  child,  whose  wide  eyes  seemed  to  haunt  him  with  their  intense 
misery.  Every  day  he  saw  her  sitting  by  her  mother's  side,  pale  and 
quiet,  with  such  a  pitiful  look  of  age  on  her  little  face,  such  repressed 
suffering  in  every  line  and  expression  as  she  watched  him  for  some 
gleam  of  hope,  that  the  thought  of  it  tortured  him  and  forced  him  to 
affect  a  cheerfulness  and  confidence  which  he  did  not  feel.  But,  in 
spite  of  every  effort  to  deceive  her,  she  was  not  comforted.  She 
seemed  to  see  deeper  than  the  surface.  Her  mother  had  never 
recognized  her,  never  spoken  to  her,  since  that  dreadful  night,  and, 
in  one  respect,  she  seemed  already  dead  to  her.  Sometimes  she 
seemed  unable  to  control  herself,  and  would  break  out  into  sharp, 
passionate  cries,  and  implore  her  mother,  with  kisses  and  caresses, 
to  speak  to  her  —  to  her  darling,  her  baby.  "Wake  up,  mama, 
wake  up !  It  's  Lady  Jane !  It  's  darling  !  Oh,  mama,  wake  up 
and  speak  to  me  !  "  she  would  cry  almost  fiercely. 

Then,  when  madame  would  tell  her  that  she  must  be  quiet,  or 
her  mother  would  never  get  well,  it  was  touching  to  witness  her 
efforts  at  self-control.  She  would  sit  for  hours  silent  and  passive, 
with  her  mother's  hand  clasped  in  hers,  and  her  lips  pressed  to  the 
feeble  fingers  that  had  no  power  to  return  her  tender  caress. 

Whatever  was  good  in  Madame  Jozain  showed  itself  in  com 
passion  for  the  suffering  little  one,  and  no  one  could  have  been  more 
faithful  than  she  in  her  care  of  both  the  mother  and  child  ;  she  felt 


LADY   JANE.  35 

such  pity  for  them,  that  she  soon  began  to  think  she  was  acting  in  a 
noble  and  disinterested  spirit  by  keeping  them  with  her,  and  nursing 
the  unfortunate  mother  so  faithfully.  She  even  began  to  identify  her 
self  with  them  ;  they  were  hers  by  virtue  of  their  friendlessness  ;  they 
belonged  to  no  one  else,  therefore  they  belonged  to  her ;  and,  in  her 
self-satisfaction,  she  imagined  that  she  was  not  influenced  by  any 
unworthy  motive  in  her  treatment  of  them. 

One  day,  only  a  little  more  than  a  week  after  the  arrival  of 
the  strangers,  a  modest  funeral  wended  its  way  through  the  nar 
row  streets  of  Gretna  toward  the  ferry,  and  the  passers  stopped  to 
stare  at  Adraste  Jozain,  dressed  in  his  best  suit,  sitting  with  much 
dignity  beside  Dr.  Debrot  in  the  only  carriage  that  followed  the 
hearse. 

"  It  's  a  stranger,  a  relative  of  Madame  Jozain,"  said  one  who 
knew.  "  She  came  from  Texas  with  her  little  girl,  less  than  two 
weeks  ago,  and  yesterday  she  died,  and  last  night  the  child  was 
taken  down  with  the  same  fever,  and  they  say  she  's  unconscious 
to-day,  so  madame  could  n't  leave  her  to  go  to  the  funeral.  No  one 
will  go  to  the  house,  because  that  old  doctor  from  the  other  side  says 
it  may  be  catching." 

That  day  the  Bergeron  tomb  in  the  old  St.  Louis  cemetery  was 
opened  for  the  first  time  since  Madame  Jozain's  father  was  placed 
there,  and  the  lovely  young  widow  was  laid  amongst  those  who  were 
neither  kith  nor  kin. 

When  Raste  returned  from  the  funeral,  he  found  his  mother 
sitting  beside  the  child,  who  lay  in  the  same  heavy  stupor  that 
marked  the  first  days  of  the  mother's  illness.  The  pretty  golden 
hair  was  spread  over  the  pillow ;  under  the  dark  lashes  were  deep 
violet  shadows,  and  the  little  cheeks  glowed  with  the  crimson  hue 
of  fever. 


36  LADY   JANE. 

Madame  was  dressed  in  her  best  black  gown,  and  she  had  been 
weeping  freely.  At  the  sight  of  Raste  in  the  door,  she  started  up 
and  burst  into  heart-breaking  sobs. 

"  Oh,  mon  cher,  oh,  mon  ami,  we  are  doomed.  Was  ever  any 
one  so  unfortunate?  Was  ever  any  one  so  punished  for  a  good 
deed?  I  've  taken  a  sick  stranger  into  my  house,  and  nursed  her 
as  if  she  were  my  own,  and  buried  her  in  my  family  tomb,  and  now 
the  child  's  taken  down,  and  Doctor  Debrot  says  it  is  a  contagious 
fever,  and  we  may  both  take  it  and  die.  That  's  what  one  gets  in 
this  world  for  trying  to  do  good ! " 

"  Nonsense,  mum,  don't  look  on  the  dark  side ;  old  Debrot  don't 
know.  I  'm  the  one  that  gave  it  out  that  the  fever  was  catching. 
I  did  n't  want  to  have  people  prying  about  here,  finding  out  every 
thing.  The  child  '11  be  better  or  worse  in  a  few  days,  and  then  we  '11 
clear  out  from  this  place,  raise  some  money  on  the  things,  and  start 
fresh  somewhere  else." 

"  Well,"  said  madame,  wiping  away  her  tears,  much  comforted 
by  Raste's  cheerful  view  of  the  situation,  "no  one  can  say  that 
I  have  n't  done  my  duty  to  the  poor  thing,  and  I  mean  to  be  kind 
to  the  child,  and  nurse  her  through  the  fever  whether  it  's  catching 
or  not.  It  's  hard  to  be  tied  to  a  sick  bed  this  hot  weather;  but 
I  'm  almost  thankful  the  little  thing  's  taken  down,  and  is  n't  con 
scious,  for  it  was  dreadful  to  see  the  way  she  mourned  for  her 
mother.  Poor  woman,  she  was  so  young  and  pretty,  and  had  such 
gentle  ways.  I  wish  I  knew  who  she  was,  especially  now  I  Ve  put 
her  in  the  Bergeron  tomb." 


CHAPTER  VI 

PEPSIE 

EVERY  one  about  that  part  of  Good  Children  Street  knew  Pepsie. 
She  had  been  a  cripple  from  infancy,  and  her  mother,  Madelon, 
or  "  Bonne  Praline,"  as  she  was  called,  was  also  quite  a  noted 
figure  in  the  neighborhood.  They  lived  in  a  tiny,  single  cottage, 
wedged  in  between  the  pharmacist,  on  the  corner,  and  M.  Fernan 
dez,  the  tobacconist,  on  the  other  side.  There  was  a  narrow  green 
door,  and  one  long  window,  with  an  ornamental  iron  railing  across 
it,  through  which  the  interior  of  the  little  room  was  visible  from  the 
outside.  It  was  a  very  neat  little  place,  and  less  ugly  than  one  would 
expect  it  to  be.  A  huge  four-post  bed,  with  red  tester  and  lace- 
covered  pillows,  almost  filled  one  side  of  the  room ;  opposite  the  bed 
a  small  fireplace  was  hung  with  pink  paper,  and  the  mantel  over  it 
was  decorated  with  a  clock,  two  vases  of  bright  paper  flowers,  a  blue 
bottle,  and  a  green  plaster  parrot ;  a  small  armoire,  a  table  above 
which  hung  a  crucifix  and  a  highly  colored  lithograph  of  the  Bleed 
ing  Heart,  and  a  few  chairs  completed  the  furniture  of  the  quaint  little 
interior ;  while  the  floor,  the  doorsteps,  and  even  the  sidewalk  were 
painted  red  with  powdered  brick-dust,  which  harmonized  very  well 
with  the  faded  yellow  stucco  of  the  walls  and  the  dingy  green  of  the 
door  and  batten  shutter. 

Behind  this  one  little  front  room  was  a  tiny  kitchen  and  yard, 
where  Madelon  made  her  pralines  and  cakes,  and  where  Tite  Souris, 
a  half-grown  darky,  instead  of  a  <:  little  mouse,"  washed,  cooked, 
and  scrubbed,  and  "  waited  on  Miss  Peps  "  during  Madelon's  absence ; 

37 


3^  LADY    JANE. 

for  Madelon  was  a  merchant.  She  had  a  stand  for  cakes  and  pra 
lines  up  on  Bourbon  Street,  near  the  French  Opera  House,  and 
thither  she  went  every  morning,  with  her  basket  and  pans  of  fresh 
pralines,  sugared  pecans,  and  calas  tout  chaud,  a  very  tempting  ar 
ray  of  dainties,  which  she  was  sure  to  dispose  of  before  she  returned 
at  night;  while  Pepsie,  her  only  child,  and  the  treasure  of  her  life, 
remained  at  home,  sitting  in  her  high  chair  by  the  window,  behind 
the  iron  railing. 

And  Pepsie  sitting  at  her  window  was  as  much  a  part  of  the 
street  as  were  the  queer  little  houses,  the  tiny  shops,  the  old  vege 
table  woman,  the  cobbler  on  the  banquette,  the  wine  merchant,  or  the 
grocer.  Every  one  knew  her :  her  long,  sallow  face  with  flashing 
dark  eyes,  wide  mouth  with  large  white  teeth,  which  were  always 
visible  in  a  broad  smile,  and  the  shock  of  heavy  black  hair  twisted  into 
a  quaint  knot  on  top  of  her  head,  which  was  abnormally  large,  and 
set  close  to  the  narrow,  distorted  shoulders,  were  always  visible,  "  from 
early  morn  till  dewy  eve,"  at  the  window ;  while  her  body  below  the 
shoulders  was  quite  hidden  by  a  high  table  drawn  forward  over  her 
lap.  On  this  table  Pepsie  shelled  the  pecans,  placing  them  in  three 
separate  piles,  the  perfect  halves  in  one  pile,  those  broken  by  acci 
dent  in  another,  and  those  slightly  shriveled,  and  a  little  rancid,  in 
still  another.  The  first  were  used  to  make  the  sugared  pecans  for 
which  Madelon  was  justly  famous ;  the  second  to  manufacture  into 
pralines,  so  good  that  they  had  given  her  the  sobriquet  of  "  Bonne 
Praline  " ;  and  the  third  pile,  which  she  disdained  to  use  in  her  busi 
ness,  nothing  imperfect  ever  entering  into  her  concoctions,  were 
swept  into  a  box,  and  disposed  of  to  merchants  who  had  less  principle 
and  less  patronage. 

All  day  long  Pepsie  sat  at  her  window,  wielding  her  little  iron 
nut-cracker  with  much  dexterity.  While  the  beautiful  clean  halves 
fell  nearly  always  unbroken  on  their  especial  pile,  she  saw  every- 


PEPSI  K    AT    WORK. 


LADY   JANE.  41 

thing  that  went  on  in  the  street,  her  bright  eyes  flashed  glances  of 
recognition  up  and  down,  her  broad  smile  greeted  in  cordial  wel 
come  those  who  stopped  at  her  window  to  chat,  and  there  was 
nearly  always  some  one  at  Pepsie's  window.  She  was  so  happy, 
so  bright,  and  so  amiable  that  every  one  loved  her,  and  she  was 
the  idol  of  all  the  children  in  the  neighborhood  —  not,  however, 
because  she  was  liberal  with  pecans.  Oh,  no ;  with  Pepsie,  business 
was  business,  and  pecans  cost  money,  and  every  ten  sugared  pecans 
meant  a  nickel  for  her  mother ;  but  they  loved  to  stand  around  the 
window,  outside  the  iron  railing,  and  watch  Pepsie  at  her  work. 
They  liked  to  see  her  with  her  pile  of  nuts  and  bowl  of  foaming 
sugar  before  her.  It  seemed  like  magic,  the  way  she  would  sugar 
them,  and  stick  them  together,  and  spread  them  out  to  dry  on  the 
clean  white  paper.  She  did  it  so  rapidly  that  her  long  white  fingers 
fairly  flashed  between  the  bowl  of  sugar,  the  pile  of  nuts,  and  the 
paper.  And  there  always  seemed  just  enough  of  each,  therefore 
her  just  discrimination  was  a  constant  wonder. 

When  she  finished  her  task,  as  she  often  did  before  dark,  Tite 
Souris  took  away  the  bowl  and  the  tray  of  sugared  nuts,  after  Pep 
sie  had  counted  them  and  put  the  number  down  in  a  little  book,  as 
much  to  protect  herself  against  Tite  Souris's  depredations  as  to  know 
the  exact  amount  of  their  stock  in  trade ;  then  she  would  open  the 
little  drawer  in  the  table,  and  take  out  a  prayer-book,  a  piece  of 
needle-work,  and  a  pack  of  cards. 

She  was  very  pious,  and  read  her  prayers  several  times  a  day ; 
after  she  put  her  prayer-book  aside  she  usually  devoted  some  time  to 
her  needle-work,  for  which  she  had  a  real  talent ;  then,  when  she 
thought  she  had  earned  her  recreation,  she  put  away  her  work,  spread 
out  her  cards,  and  indulged  in  an  intricate  game  of  solitaire.  This 
was  her  passion  ;  she  was  very  systematic,  and  very  conscientious ; 
but  if  she  ever  purloined  any  time  from  her  duties,  it  was  that  she 


42  LADY   JANE. 

might  engage  in  that  fascinating  game.  She  decided  everything  by 
it ;  whatever  she  wished  to  know,  two  games  out  of  three  would  give 
her  the  answer,  for  or  against. 

Sometimes  she  looked  like  a  little  witch  during  a  wicked  incan 
tation,  as  she  hovered  over  the  rows  of  cards,  her  face  dark  and 
brooding,  her  long,  thin  fingers  darting  here  and  there,  silent,  ab 
sorbed,  almost  breathless  under  the  fatal  spell  of  chance. 

In  this  way  she  passed  day  after  day,  always  industrious,  always 
contented,  and  always  happy.  She  was  very  comfortable  in  her  snug 
little  room,  which  was  warm  in  winter  and  cool  in  summer,  owing 
to  the  two  high  buildings  adjoining ;  and  although  she  was  a  cripple, 
and  her  lower  limbs  useless,  she  suffered  little  pain,  unless  she  was 
moved  roughly,  or  jarred  in  some  way  ;  and  no  one  could  be  more 
carefully  protected  from  discomfort  than  she  was,  for  although  she 
was  over  twelve,  Madelon  still  treated  her  as  if  she  were  a  baby. 
Every  morning,  before  she  left  for  the  Rue  Bourbon,  she  bathed  and 
dressed  the  girl,  and  lifted  her  tenderly,  with  her  strong  arms,  into 
her  wheeled  chair,  where  she  drank  her  coffee,  and  ate  her  roll,  as 
dainty  as  a  little  princess,  for  she  was  always  exquisitely  clean.  In  the 
summer  she  wore  pretty  little  white  sacks,  with  a  bright  bow  of  ribbon 
at  the  neck,  and  in  winter  her  shrunken  figure  was  clothed  in  warm, 
soft  woolen. 

Madelon  did  not  sit  out  all  day  in  rain  and  shine  on  Bourbon 
Street,  and  make  cakes  and  pralines  half  the  night,  for  anything  else 
but  to  provide  this  crippled  mite  with  every  comfort.  As  I  said  be 
fore,  the  girl  was  her  idol,  and  she  had  toiled  day  and  night  to  gratify 
her  every  wish ;  and,  as  far  as  she  knew,  there  was  but  one  desire 
unsatisfied,  and  for  the  accomplishment  of  that  she  was  working  and 
saving  little  by  little. 

Once  Pepsie  had  said  that  she  would  like  to  live  in  the  country. 
All  she  knew  of  the  country  was  what  she  had  read  in  books,  and 


LADY    JANE.  43 

what  her  mother,  who  had  once  seen  the  country,  had  told  her. 
Often  she  closed  her  eyes  to  shut  out  the  hot,  narrow  street,  and 
thought  of  green  valleys,  with  rivers  running  through  them,  and  hills 
almost  touching  the  sky,  and  broad  fields  shaded  by  great  trees,  and 
covered  with  waving  grass  and  flowers.  That  was  her  one  unrealized 
ideal,— her  "Carcassonne,"  which  she  feared  she  was  never  to  reach, 
except  in  imagination. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE    ARRIVAL 

ON  the  other  side  of  Good  Children  Street,  and  almost  directly 
opposite  Madelon's  tiny  cottage,  was  a  double  house  of  more 
pretentious  appearance  than  those  just  around  it.  It  was 
a  little  higher,  the  door  was  wider,  and  a  good-sized  window  on 
each  side  had  a  small  balcony,  more  for  ornament  than  use,  as  it 
was  scarcely  wide  enough  to  stand  on.  The  roof  projected  well 
over  the  sidewalk,  and  there  was  some  attempt  at  ornamentation 
in  the  brackets  that  supported  it.  At  one  side  was  a  narrow  yard 
with  a  stunted  fig-tree,  and  a  ragged  rose-bush  straggled  up  the 
posts  of  a  small  side-gallery. 

This  house  had  been  closed  for  some  time.  The  former  tenant 
having  died,  his  family,  who  were  respectable,  pleasant  people,  were 
obliged  to  leave  it,  much  to  Pepsie's  sorrow,  for  she  was  always 
interested  in  her  neighbors,  and  she  had  taken  a  great  deal  of 
pleasure  in  observing  the  ways  of  this  household.  Therefore  she 
was  very  tired  of  looking  at  the  closed  doors  and  windows,  and  was 
constantly  wishing  that  some  one  would  take  it.  At  last,  greatly  to 
her  gratification,  one  pleasant  morning,  late  in  August,  a  middle-aged 
woman,  very  well  dressed  in  black,  who  was  lame  and  walked  with 
a  stick,  a  young  man,  and  a  lovely  little  girl,  appeared  on  the  scene, 
stopped  before  the  empty  house,  and  after  looking  at  it  with  much 
interest  mounted  the  steps,  unlocked  the  door,  and  entered. 

The  child  interested  Pepsie  at  once.  Although  she  had  seen  very 
few  high-bred  children  in  her  short  life,  she  noticed  that  this  little 


LADY   JANE.  45 

one  was  different  from  the  small  inhabitants  of  Good  Children  Street. 
Her  white  frock,  black  sash,  and  wide  black  hat  had  a  certain  grace 
uncommon  in  that  quarter,  and  every  movement  and  step  had  an 
elegant  ease,  very  unlike  the  good-natured  little  Creoles  who  played 
around  Pepsie's  window. 

However,  it  was  not  only  the  child's  beauty,  her  tasteful,  pretty 
dress,  and  high-bred  air  that  interested  Pepsie ;  it  was  the  pale, 
mournful  little  face,  and  the  frail  little  figure,  looking  so  wan  and 
ill.  The  woman  held  her  by  the  hand,  and  she  walked  very  slowly 
and  feebly;  the  robust,  black-eyed  young  man  carried  a  small  basket, 
which  the  child  watched  constantly. 

Pepsie  could  not  remove  her  eyes  from  the  house,  so  anxious 
was  she  to  see  the  child  again ;  but,  instead  of  coming  out,  as  she 
expected  they  would  after  they  had  looked  at  the  house,  much  to 
her  joy  she  saw  the  young  man  flinging  open  the  shutters  and  doors, 
with  quite  an  air  of  ownership ;  then  she  saw  the  woman  take  off 
her  bonnet  and  veil,  and  the  child's  hat,  and  hang  them  on  a  hook 
near  the  window.  Presently,  the  little  girl  came  out  on  the  small 
side- gallery  with  something  in  her  arms.  Pepsie  strained  her  eyes, 
and  leaned  forward  as  far  as  her  lameness  would  allow  her  in  order 
to  see  what  the  child  had. 

"  It  's  a  cat;  no,  it  's  a  dog ;  no,  it  is  n't.  Why,  it  must  be  a  bird. 
I  can  see  it  flutter  its  wings.  Yes,  it  's  a  bird,  a  large,  strange-look 
ing  bird.  I  wonder  what  it  is  ! "  And  Pepsie,  in  her  excitement  and 
undue  curiosity,  almost  tipped  out  of  her  chair,  while  the  child 
looked  around  her  with  a  listless,  uninterested  air,  and  then  sat 
down  on  the  step,  hugging  the  bird  closely  and  stroking  its 
feathers. 

"  Certainly,  they  Ve  come  to  stay,"  said  Pepsie  to  herself,  "or 
they  would  n't  open  all  the  windows,  and  take  off  their  things.  Oh, 
I  wonder  if  they  have  ;  I  '11  just  get  my  cards,  and  find  out." 


46  LADY   JANE. 

But  Pepsie's  oracle  was  doomed  to  remain  silent,  for,  before 
she  got  them  spread  on  the  table,  there  was  a  rumbling  of  wheels  in 
the  street,  and  a  furniture-wagon,  pretty  well  loaded,  drove  up  to  the 
door.  Pepsie  swept  her  cards  into  the  drawer,  and  watched  it  unload 
with  great  satisfaction. 

At  the  same  moment,  the  active  Tite  Souris  entered  like  a  whirl 
wind,  her  braids  of  wool  sticking  up,  and  her  face  all  eyes  and  teeth. 
She  had  been  out  on  the  banquette,  and  was  bursting  with  news. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Peps',  Miss  Peps',  sum  un's  done  tuk  dat  house  ov* 
yon'er,  an'  is  a-movin'  in  dis  ver'  minit.  It  's  a  woman  an'  a  boy, 
an'  a  littl'  yaller  gal.  I  means  a  littl'  gal  wid  yaller  ha'r  all  ove'  her, 
an'  she  got  a  littl'  long-legged  goslin',  a-huggin'  it  up  like  she  awful 
fond  uv  it." 

"  Oh,  stop,  Tite;  go  away  to  your  work,"  cried  Pepsie,  too  busy  to 
listen  to  her  voluble  handmaid.  "  Don't  I  see  them  without  your 
telling  me.  You  'd  better  finish  scouring  your  kitchen,  or  mama  '11 
get  after  you  when  she  comes  home." 

"  Shore  'nuff,  I  'se  a-scourin',  Miss  Peps',  an'  I  'se  jes  a  dyin  tu  git 
out  on  dat  banquette ;  dat  banquette  's  a-spilin'  might'  bad  ter  be 
cleaned.  Let  me  do  dat  banquette  right  now,  Miss  Peps',  an'  I  'se 
gwine  scour  lak  fury  bymeby." 

"Very  well,  Tite;  go  and  do  the  banquette,"  returned  Pepsie, 
smiling  indulgently.  "  But  mind  what  I  say  about  the  kitchen,  when 
mama  comes." 

Such  an  event  as  some  one  moving  in  Good  Children  Street 
was  very  uncommon.  Pepsie  thought  every  one  had  lived  there 
since  the  flood,  and  she  did  n't  blame  Tite  Souris  to  want  to  be  out 
with  the  other  idle  loungers  to  see  what  was  going  on,  although  she 
understood  the  banquette  ruse  perfectly. 

At  last  all  the  furniture  was  carried  in,  and  with  it  two  trunks, 
so  large  for  that  quarter  as  to  cause  no  little  comment. 


LADY   JANE.  47 

"Par  exemple!"  said  Monsieur  Fernandez,  "what  a  size  for  a 
trunk !  That  madame  yonder  must  have  traveled  much  in  the 
North.  I  Ve  heard  they  use  them  there  for  ladies'  toilets." 

And,  straightway,  madame  acquired  greater  importance  from 
the  conclusion  that  she  had  traveled  extensively. 

Then  the  wagon  went  away,  the  door  was  discreetly  "  bowed," 
and  the  loungers  dispersed ;  but  Pepsie,  from  her  coign  of  vantage, 
still  watched  every  movement  of  the  new-comers.  She  saw  Raste 
come  out  with  a  basket,  and  she  was  sure  that  he  had  gone  to 
market.  She  saw  madame  putting  up  a  pretty  lace  curtain  at  one 
window,  and  she  was  curious  to  know  if  she  intended  to  have  a 
parlor.  Only  one  blind  was  thrown  open;  the  other  was  "bowed" 
all  day,  yet  she  was  positive  that  some  one  was  working  behind  it. 
"That  must  be  madame's  room,"  she  thought;  "that  big  boy  will 
have  the  back  room  next  to  the  kitchen,  and  the  little  girl  will  sleep 
with  madame,  so  the  room  on  this  side,  with  the  pretty  curtain,  will 
be  the  parlor.  I  wonder  if  she  will  have  a  carpet,  and  a  console,  with 
vases  of  wax-flowers  on  it,  and  a  cabinet  full  of  shells,  and  a  sofa." 
This  was  Pepsie's  idea  of  a  parlor ;  she  had  seen  a  parlor  once  long 
ago,  and  it  was  like  this. 

So  she  wondered  and  speculated  all  day ;  and  all  day  the  pale, 
sorrowful  child  sat  alone  on  the  side-gallery,  holding  her  bird  in 
her  arms ;  and  when  night  came,  Pepsie  had  not  sugared  her  pecans, 
neither  had  she  read  her  prayers,  nor  even  played  one  game  of 
solitaire;  but  Madelon  did  not  complain  of  her  idleness.  It  was 
seldom  the  child  had  such  a  treat,  and  even  Tite  Souris  escaped 
a  scolding,  in  consideration  of  the  great  event. 

The  next  morning  Pepsie  was  awake  very  early,  and  so  anxious 
was  she  to  get  to  the  window  that  she  could  hardly  wait  to  be 
dressed.  When  she  first  looked  across  the  street,  the  doors  and 
shutters  were  closed,  but  some  one  had  been  stirring ;  and  Tite 


48  LADY   JANE. 

Souris  informed  her,  when  she  brought  her  coffee,  that  madame 
had  been  out  at  "  sun  up,"  and  had  cleaned  and  "  bricked "  the 
banquette  her  own  self. 

"  Then  I  'm  afraid  she  is  n't  rich,"  said  Pepsie,  "  because  if  she  was 
rich,  she  'd  keep  a  servant,  and  perhaps  after  all  she  won't  have  a 
parlor." 

Presently  there  was  a  little  flutter  behind  the  bowed  blind,  and 
lo !  it  was  suddenly  flung  open,  and  there,  right  in  the  middle  of  the 
window,  hung  a  very  tasty  gilt  frame,  surrounding  a  white  center,  on 
which  was  printed,  in  red  and  gilt  letters/ '  Blanchisseuse  de  fin,  etcon- 
fections  de  toute  sorte"  and  underneath,  written  in  Raste's  boldest  hand 
and  best  English,  "  Fin  Washun  dun  hear,  an  notuns  of  al  sort,"  and 
behind  the  sign  Pepsie  could  plainly  see  a  flutter  of  laces  and  muslins, 
children's  dainty  little  frocks  and  aprons,  ladies'  collars,  cuffs,  and 
neckties,  handkerchiefs  and  sacks,  and  various  other  articles  for  fem 
inine  use  and  adornment ;  and  on  a  table,  close  to  the  window,  were 
boxes  of  spools,  bunches  of  tape,  cards  of  buttons,  skeins  of  wool,  rolls 
of  ribbons  ;  in  short,  an  assortment  of  small  wares,  which  presented 
quite  an  attractive  appearance  ;  and,  hovering  about  them,  madame 
could  be  discerned,  in  her  black  skirt  and  fresh  white  sack,  while,  as 
smiling  and  self-satisfied  as  ever,  she  arranged  her  stock  to  the  best 
advantage,  and  waited  complacently  for  the  customers  who  she  was 
sure  would  come. 

For  the  first  time  since  the  death  of  the  young  widow  in  Gretna, 
she  breathed  freely,  for  she  began  to  feel  some  security  in  her  new 
possessions.  At  last,  everything  had  turned  out  as  Raste  predicted, 
and  she  had  worked  her  plans  well.  The  young  mother,  sleeping  in 
the  Bergeron  tomb,  could  never  testify  against  her,  and  the  child  was 
too  young  to  give  any  but  the  most  sketchy  information  about  herself. 
She  did  not  even  know  the  name  of  her  parents,  and  since  her  recov 
ery  from  the  fever  she  seemed  to  have  forgotten  a  great  deal  that  she 


LADY   JANE.  49 

knew  before.  Her  illness  had  left  her  in  a  pitiable  condition ;  she 
was  weak  and  dull,  and  did  not  appear  to  care  for  anything  but  the  blue 
heron,  which  was  her  constant  companion.  Whether  she  was  con 
scious  of  her  great  loss,  and  was  mourning  for  her  mother,  madame  could 
not  decide.  At  first,  she  had  asked  constantly  for  her,  and  madame 
had  told  her  kindly,  and  with  caresses,  which  were  not  returned,  that 
her  mother  had  gone  away  for  a  while,  and  had  left  her  with  her  Tante 
Pauline  ;  and  that  she  must  be  a  good  little  girl,  and  love  her  Tante 
Pauline,  while  her  mother  was  away. 

Lady  Jane  looked  at  madame's  bland  face  with  such  solemnly 
scrutinizing  eyes,  that  she  almost  made  her  blush  for  the  falsehood 
she  was  telling,  but  said  nothing ;  her  little  thoughts  and  memories 
were  very  busy,  and  very  far  away  ;  she  had  not  forgotten  as  much 
as  madame  fancied  she  had,  neither  did  she  believe  as  much  as  madame 
thought  she  did.  Whatever  of  doubt  or  regret  passed  through  her 
little  brain,  she  made  no  sign,  but  remained  quiet  and  docile ;  she 
never  laughed,  and  seldom  cried ;  she  was  very  little  trouble,  and 
scarcely  noticed  anything  that  was  going  on  around  her.  In  fact, 
she  was  stupefied  and  subdued,  by  the  sudden  misfortunes  that  had 
come  upon  her,  until  she  seemed  a  very  different  being  from  the  bright 
spirited  child  of  a  few  weeks  before. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

LADY   JANE    FINDS   A    FRIEND 

FROM  the  first,  madame  had  insisted  that  the  stranger's  prop 
erty  should  not  be  meddled  with  until  a  certain  time  had 
passed. 

"  We  must  wait,"  she  said  to  the  eager  and  impulsive  Raste, 
"  to  see  if  she  is  missed,  and  advertised  for.  A  person  of  her  posi 
tion  must  have  friends  somewhere,  and  it  would  be  rather  bad  for 
us  if  she  was  traced  here,  and  it  was  found  out  that  she  died  in 
our  house ;  we  might  even  be  suspected  of  killing  her  to  get  her 
money.  Detectives  are  capable  of  anything,  and  it  is  n't  best  to  get 
in  their  clutches ;  but  if  we  don't  touch  her  things,  they  can't  accuse 
us,  and  Dr.  Debrot  knows  she  died  of  fever,  so  I  would  be  con 
sidered  a  kind-hearted  Christian  woman,  and  I  'd  be  paid  well  for  all 
my  trouble,  if  it  should  come  out  that  she  died  here." 

These  arguments  had  their  weight  with  Raste,  who,  though 
thoroughly  unscrupulous,  was  careful  about  getting  into  the  toils 
of  the  law,  his  father's  fate  serving  as  an  example  to  him  of  the 
difficulty  of  escaping  from  those  toils  when  they  once  close  upon 
a  victim. 

If  at  that  time  they  had  noticed  the  advertisement  in  the  jour 
nals  signed  "  Blue  Heron,"  it  would  have  given  them  a  terrible 
fright ;  but  they  seldom  read  the  papers,  and  before  they  thought 
of  looking  for  a  notice  of  the  missing  woman  and  child,  it  had  been 
withdrawn. 


LADY   JANE.  51 

For  several  weeks  Raste  went  regularly  to  the  grocery  on  the 
levee,  and  searched  over  the  daily  papers  until  his  eyes  ached ;  but 
in  vain;  among  all  the  singular  advertisements  and  " personals," 
there  was  nothing  that  referred  in  any  way  to  the  subject  that 
interested  him. 

Therefore,  after  some  six  weeks  had  passed,  madame  deemed 
that  it  was  safe  to  begin  to  cover  her  tracks,  as  Raste  had  advised 
with  more  force  than  elegance.  The  first  thing  to  do  was  to  move 
into  another  neighborhood ;  for  that  reason,  she  selected  the  house  in 
Good  Children  Street,  it  being  as  far  away  from  her  present  residence 
as  she  could  possibly  get,  without  leaving  the  city  altogether. 

At  first  she  was  tempted  to  give  up  work,  and  live  like  a  lady 
for  a  while  ;  then  she  considered  that  her  sudden  wealth  might  arouse 
suspicion,  and  she  decided  to  carry  on  her  present  business,  with  the 
addition  of  a  small  stock  of  fancy  articles  to  sell  on  which  she  could 
make  a  snug  little  profit,  and  at  the  same  time  give  greater  impor 
tance  and  respectability  to  her  humble  calling. 

Among  the  dead  woman's  effects  was  the  pocket-book,  contain 
ing  five  hundred  dollars,  which  she  had  secreted  from  Raste.  From 
the  money  in  the  traveling  bag  she  had  paid  the  humble  funeral  ex 
penses,  and  Dr.  Debrot's  modest  bill,  and  there  still  remained  some  for 
other  demands;  but  besides  the  money  there  were  many  valuables,  the 
silver  toilet  articles,  jewelry,  laces,  embroideries,  and  the  handsome 
wardrobe  of  both  mother  and  child.  In  one  of  the  trunks  she  found 
a  writing-case  full  of  letters  written  in  English.  From  these  letters 
she  could  have  learned  all  that  it  was  necessary  to  know ;  but  she 
could  not  read  English  readily,  especially  writing ;  she  was  afraid  to 
show  them,  and  she  feared  to  keep  them;  therefore  she  thought  it 
best  to  destroy  them.  So  one  night,  when  she  was  alone,  she  burned 
them  all  in  the  kitchen  stove;  not,  however,  without  some  misgivings 
and  some  qualms  of  conscience,  for  at  the  moment  when  she  saw 


52  LADY    JANE. 

them  crumbling  to  white  ashes  the  gentle  face  of  the  dead  woman 
seemed  to  come  before  her,  and  her  blue  eyes  to  look  at  her  sadly 
and  reproachfully. 

Then  she  thought  of  Father  Ducros,  so  stern  and  severe,  he  had 
but  little  mercy  or  charity  for  those  who  sinned  deliberately  and  wil 
fully,  as  she  was  doing.  She  would  never  dare  to  go  to  him,  and 
what  would  become  of  her  soul  ?  Already  she  was  beginning  to  feel 
that  the  way  of  the  transgressor  is  hard;  but  she  silenced  the  striving 
of  conscience  with  specious  arguments.  She  had  not  sought  the 
temptation, — it  had  come  to  her,  in  the  form  of  a  dying  woman  ;  she 
had  done  her  best  by  her,  and  now  the  child  was  thrown  on  her  and 
must  be  cared  for.  She  did  not  know  the  child's  name,  so  she  could 
not  restore  her  to  her  friends,  even  if  she  had  any;  it  was  not  likely 
that  she  had,  or  they  would  have  advertised  for  her ;  and  she  meant 
to  be  good  to  the  little  thing.  She  would  take  care  of  her,  and  bring 
her  up  well.  She  should  be  a  daughter  to  her.  Surely  that  was  better 
than  sending  her  to  a  home  for  foundlings,  as  another  would  do.  In 
this  way  she  persuaded  herself  that  she  was  really  an  honest,  char 
itable  woman,  who  was  doing  what  was  best  for  the  child  by  appro 
priating  her  mother's  property,  and  destroying  every  proof  of  her 
identity. 

From  the  child's  wardrobe  she  selected  the  plainest  and  most 
useful  articles  for  daily  wear,  laying  aside  the  finest  and  daintiest 
to  dispose  of  as  her  business  might  offer  opportunity ;  and  from 
the  mother's  clothes  she  also  made  a  selection,  taking  for  her  own 
use  what  she  considered  plain  enough  to  wear  with  propriety, 
while  the  beautiful  linen,  fine  laces,  and  pretty  little  trifles  went 
a  long  way  in  furnishing  her  show-window  handsomely. 

Notwithstanding  her  assurance,  she  felt  some  misgivings  when 
she  placed  those  pretty,  dainty  articles  in  the  broad  light  of  day 
before  an  observing  public, —  and  not  only  the  public  terrified  her, 


LADY   JANE.  53 

but  the  child  also ;  suppose  she  should  recognize  her  mother's  prop 
erty,  and  make  a  scene.  Therefore  it  was  with  no  little  anxiety 
that  she  waited  the  first  morning  for  Lady  Jane's  appearance  in 
the  little  shop. 

After  a  while  she  came  in,  heavy-eyed,  pale,  listless,  and  care 
lessly  dressed,  her  long  silken  hair  uncombed,  her  little  feet  and  legs 
bare,  and  her  whole  manner  that  of  a  sorrowful,  neglected  child. 
She  carried  her  bird  in  her  arms,  as  usual,  and  was  passing  out  of 
the  side-door  to  the  little  yard,  without  as  much  as  a  glance, 
when  madame,  who  was  watching  her  furtively,  said  to  her  in 
rather  a  fretful  tone: 

"  Come  here,  child,  and  let  me  button  your  clothes.  And  you 
have  n't  brushed  your  hair ;  now  this  won't  do ;  you  're  old  enough 
to  dress  yourself,  and  you  must  do  it ;  I  can't  wait  on  you  every 
minute,  I  Ve  got  something  else  to  do."  Then  she  asked  in  a  softer 
tone,  while  she  smoothed  the  golden  hair,  "  See  my  pretty  window. 
Don't  you  think  it  looks  very  handsome  ?  " 

Lady  Jane  turned  her  heavy  eyes  toward  the  laces  and  flutter 
ing  things  above  her,  then  they  slowly  fell  to  the  table,  and  suddenly, 
with  a  piercing  cry,  she  seized  a  little  jewel-box,  an  odd,  pretty  silver 
trinket  that  madame  had  displayed  among  her  small  wares,  and 
exclaimed  passionately:  "That  's  my  mama's;  it  's  mama's,  and 
you  shan't  have  it,"  and  turning,  she  rushed  into  madame's  room, 
leaving  Tony  to  flutter  from  her  arms,  while  she  held  the  little  box 
tightly  clasped  to  her  bosom. 

Madame  did  not  notice  her  outbreak,  neither  did  she  attempt  to 
take  the  box  from  her,  so  she  carried  it  about  with  her  all  day ;  but 
at  night,  after  the  little  one  had  fallen  asleep,  madame  unclosed 
the  fingers  that  still  clung  to  it,  and  without  a  pang  consigned  it 
to  obscurity. 

"  I  must  n't  let  her  see  that  again,"  she  said  to  herself.     "  Dear 


54  LADY    JANE. 

me,  what  should  I  do,  if  she  should  act  like  that  before  a  customer? 
I  '11  never  feel  safe  until  everything  is  sold,  and  out  of  the  way." 

"  Well,  I  declare,  if  that  is  n't  the  fifth  customer  Madame  Jozain 
has  had  this  morning,"  said  Pepsie  to  Tite  Souris,  a  few  days  after 
the  new  arrival.  ''She  must  be  doing  a  good  business,  for  they  all 
buy;  at  least  they  all  come  out  with  paper  parcels." 

"  An'  jes'  see  dem  chil'ren  crowd  'roun'  dat  do.  Lor',  dey  doant 
cum  ter  yer  winner  eny  mo',  Miss  Peps',"  said  Tite,  with  an  accent 
of  disgust,  as  she  brushed  the  pecan -shells  from  Pepsie's  table. 
"Dey  jes'  stan'  ober  dar  ter  git  a  glimge  uv  dat  dar  goslin'  de  littl'  gal 
holes  all  day.  Po  chile  !  she  might'  lunsum,  setten  dar  all  'lone." 

"Tite,  oh,  Tite,  can't  you  coax  her  across  the  street?  I  want  to 
see  her  near,"  cried  Pepsie  eagerly ;  "  I  want  to  see  what  kind  of 
a  bird  that  is." 

"Dem  chil'ren  say  how  it  's  a  herin'.  I  doant  believe  dat  —  hit 
ain't  no  ways  lak  dem  herin's  in  de  sto,  what  dey  has  in  pickl'.  Sho ! 
dat  ain't  no  herin',  hit 's  a  goslin' ;  I  'se  done  seen  goslin's  on  de  plan- 
tashun,  an'  hit  's  a  goslin',  shore  nuff." 

"  Well,  I  want  to  see  for  myself,  Tite.  Go  there  to  the  fence, 
and  ask  her  to  come  here ;  tell  her  I  '11  give  her  some  pecans." 

Tite  went  on  her  mission,  and  lingered  so  long,  staring  with 
the  others,  that  her  mistress  had  to  call  her  back.  She  returned 
alone.  Lady  Jane  declined  to  accept  the  invitation. 

"  T  ain't  no  use,"  said  Tite  energetically.  "  She  wunt  cum.  She 
on'y  hugs  dat  dar  long-legged  bird,  an'  looks  at  yer  solum,  lak  a 
owel ;  't  ain't  no  use,  she  wunt  cum.  She  might'  stuck  up,  Miss  Peps'. 
She  say  she  doan't  want  peccuns.  Ain't  dat  cur'ous?  Oh,  Lor, 
doan't  want  peccuns  !  Well,  white  chil'ren  is  der  beatenes'  chil'ren  !  " 
and  Tite  went  to  her  work,  muttering  her  surprise  at  the  "cur'ous- 
ness"  of  white  children  in  general,  and  Lady  Jane  in  particular. 


LADY    JANE.  55 

All  day  long  Pepsie  watched,  hoping  that  the  little  girl  might 
change  her  mind,  and  decide  to  be  more  neighborly ;  but  she  was 
doomed  to  disappointment.  Near  night,  feeling  that  it  was  useless  to 
hope,  and  noticing  that  madame's  customers  were  dropping  off,  she 
sought  consolation  in  a  game  of  solitaire. 

Just  as  she  was  at  the  most  exciting  point,  a  slight  rustling 
sound  attracted  her  attention,  and,  looking  up,  she  saw  a  little 
figure  in  a  soiled  white  frock,  with  long  yellow  hair  falling  over 
her  shoulders,  and  a  thick,  neglected  bang  almost  touching  her 
eyebrows.  The  little  face  was  pale  and  sorrowful ;  but  a  faint 
smile  dimpled  the  lips,  and  the  eyes  were  bright  and  earnest. 
Lady  Jane  was  holding  the  bird  up  in  both  hands  over  the  iron 
railing,  and  when  she  caught  Pepsie's  surprised  glance  she  said 
very  politely  and  very  sweetly : 
"  Would  you  like  to  see  Tony  ? " 

And  that  was  the  way  in  which  Lady  Jane  and  Pepsie  first 
became  acquainted. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE    FIRST    VISIT    TO    PEPSIE 

WHEN   Pepsie  first  looked  at    Lady  Jane,  standing  before 
her   holding   up  the    bird,   with    the  light  of  the   sunset 
on  her  yellow  hair,  and  her  lips  parted  in  a  smile  that 
made  even  the  solemn  eyes  bright,  she  felt  as  if  she  saw  a  visitor 
from  another  world. 

For  a  moment,  she  could  only  look  at  her;  then  she  found  voice 
to  say: 

"  I  was  afraid  you  would  n't  come.  Tite  said  you  would  n't.  I  Ve 
looked  for  you  all  day." 

"  I  came  to  show  Tony  to  you  before  I  go  to  bed.  I  '11  hold  him 
so  you  can  see  him."  And  Lady  Jane  stretched  up  on  the  tips  of 
her  little  white  toes  to  reach  the  bird  above  the  railing. 

"  Wait  a  moment,  I  '11  have  Tite  open  the  door  for  you.  Won't 
you  come  in  ?  " 

Tite,  who  heard  Pepsie  talking,  was  peeping  through  the  kitchen- 
door,  and  in  an  instant  she  had  pushed  the  bolt  aside,  and  Lady  Jane 
stood  in  the  little  room,  and  was  looking  around  her  with  pleased 
surprise. 

"  Why,  how  nice ! "  she  said,  with  a  little  sigh  of  content;  "  I  'm 
glad  I  came.  Have  you  got  a  kitty  ?  " 

"A  kitty?  you  mean  a  little  cat,"  asked  Pepsie,  her  face  one 
broad  smile  over  the  child  and  bird.  "  No,  I  have  n't  one,  and 
I  'm  sorry." 


LADY   JANE.  57 

Lady  Jane  had  dropped  Tony  on  the  floor,  holding  him  with 
a  long  string  fastened  to  the  leather  band  on  his  leg,  while  she 
looked  over  Pepsie's  little,  distorted  figure  with  mingled  curiosity 
and  pity. 

In  the  mean  time,  Pepsie  and  Tite  were  watching  the  bird  with 
the  closest  attention,  while  he  hopped  about,  not  very  gracefully, 
picking  grains  of  brick-dust  from  the  cracks  of  the  floor. 

At  last  Tite,  unable  to  control  her  wonder  and  admiration, 
broke  forth : 

"  Miss  Peps',  jes  look  at  he.  Ain't  he  the  cur'ousest  bird  y'  ever 
seed?  An'  he  ain't  no  goslin',  shore  nuff;  jes  look  at  he  tail  feaders ; 
jes  lak  dem  feaders  on  Mam'selle  Marie's  hat." 

"  And  he  knows  when  I  speak  to  him,"  said  Lady  Jane,  lifting 
her  lovely  eyes  to  Pepsie.  "  Now  I  '11  call  him,  and  you  '11  see 
him  come." 

Then  she  chirruped  softly,  and  called  "  Tony,  Tony."  The 
bird  turned  his  bright  eyes  on  her,  and  with  a  fluttering  run 
he  hurried  to  her. 

"  Oh,  oh  !  "  cried  Pepsie,  quite  overcome  with  surprise.  "  Is  n't  he 
knowing  !  I  never  saw  such  a  bird.  Is  he  a  wild  bird  ?  " 

"  No,  he  's  very  tame,  or  he  'd  fly  away,"  replied  Lady  Jane, 
looking  at  him  fondly.  "  He  's  a  blue  heron ;  no  one  has  a  bird 
like  him." 

"  A  blue  heron ! "  repeated  Pepsie  wonderingly.  "  I  never  heard  of 
such  a  bird." 

*'  Did  n't  I  done  tole  yer  dem  chil'ren  say  he  a  herin',  an'  he  ain't 
no  herin'  ?  "  interrupted  Tite,  determined  to  support  her  assertion  as 
to  her  knowledge  of  the  difference  between  fish  and  fowl.  "  I  tole  yer, 
Miss  Peps',  how  herin's  fish,  an'  he  a  bird,  shore  nuff."  And,  unable 
to  repress  her  mirth  at  the  oddity  of  the  name,  she  burst  into  a  loud 
laugh  of  derision. 


58  LADY   JANE. 

Lady  Jane  looked  hurt  and  surprised,  and,  stooping  for  Tony, 
she  gathered  him  up  and  turned  toward  the  door. 

"  Oh,  don't  go,  please  don't!  "  pleaded  Pepsie.  "  Tite,  stop  laugh 
ing,  and  put  a  chair  for  the  little  girl,  and  then  go  to  your  work." 

Tite  obeyed  reluctantly,  with  many  a  grin  and  backward  look, 
and  Lady  Jane,  after  lingering  a  moment  at  the  door,  shy  and 
undecided,  put  Tony  down  again,  and  climbed  into  the  chair  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  table. 

"  Now  that  darky  's  gone,"  said  Pepsie,  with  a  gaiety  that  was 
reassuring,  "  we  can  talk  sense.  Do  you  understand  me,  everything 
I  say?  You  know  I  don't  speak  English  very  well." 

"  Oh,  yes!"  answered  Lady  Jane;  "I  know  what  you  say,  and 
I  like  you." 

"  I  'm  glad  of  that,"  said  Pepsie  brightly,  "because  I  Ve  been 
just  crazy  to  have  you  come  over  here.  Now  tell  me,  is  Madame 
Jozain  your  aunt  or  your  grandma?" 

"Why,  she  's  my  Tante  Pauline;  that  's  all,"  replied  the  child 
indifferently. 

"  Do  you  love  her  dearly?  "  asked  Pepsie,  who  was  something  of 
a  little  diplomat. 

"  No,  I  don't  love  her,"  said  Lady  Jane  decidedly. 

"  Oh  my  !    Why,  is  n't  she  good  to  you  ?  " 

Lady  Jane  made  no  reply,  but  looked  wistfully  at  Pepsie,  as  if 
she  would  rather  not  express  her  opinion  on  the  subject. 

"Well,  never  mind.  I  guess  she  's  kind  to  you,  only  perhaps 
you  miss  your  ma.  Has  she  gone  away?"  And  Pepsie  lowered  her 
voice  and  spoke  very  softly;  she  felt  that  she  was  treading  on 
delicate  ground,  but  she  so  wanted  to  know  all  about  the  dear  lit 
tle  thing,  not  so  much  from  curiosity  as  from  the  interest  she  felt 
in  her. 

Lady  Jane  did  not  reply,  and  Pepsie  again  asked  very  gently: 


LADY    JANE.  59 

"  Has  your  mama  gone  away  ?  " 

"  Tante  Pauline  says  so,"  replied  the  child,  as  the  woe-begone 
expression  settled  on  her  little  face  again.  "She  says  mama  's 
gone  away,  and  that  she  '11  come  back.  I  think  she  's  gone  to 
heaven  to  see  papa.  You  know  papa  went  to  heaven  before  we 
left  the  ranch — and  mama  got  tired  waiting  for  him  to  come  back, 
and  so  she  's  gone  to  see  him ;  but  I  wish  she  'd  taken  me  with  her. 
I  want  to  see  papa  too,  and  I  don't  like  to  wait  so  long." 

The  soft,  serious  little  voice  fell  to  a  sigh,  and  she  looked 
solemnly  out  of  the  window  at  the  strip  of  sunset  sky  over 
Madame  Jozain's  house. 

Pepsie's  great  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  she  turned  away  her 
head  to  hide  them. 

"  Heaven  's  somewhere  up  there,  is  n't  it  ? "  she  continued, 
pointing  upward.  "  Every  night  when  the  stars  come  out,  I  watch 
to  see  if  papa  and  mama  are  looking  at  me.  I  think  they  like  to 
stay  up  there,  and  don't  want  to  come  back,  and  perhaps  they  've 
forgotten  all  about  Lady  Jane." 

"  Lady  Jane,  is  that  your  name  ?  Why,  how  pretty  !  "  said  Pepsie, 
trying  to  speak  brightly  ;  "  and  what  a  little  darling  you  are  !  I  don't 
think  any  one  would  ever  forget  you,  much  less  your  papa  and  mama. 
Don't  get  tired  waiting;  you  're  sure  to  see  them  again,  and  you 
need  n't  to  be  lonesome,  sitting  there  on  the  gallery  every  day 
alone.  While  your  aunt  's  busy  with  her  customers,  you  can  come 
over  here  with  your  bird,  and  sit  with  me.  I  '11  show  you  how  to 
shell  pecans  and  sugar  them,  and  I  '11  read  some  pretty  stories 
to  you.  And  oh,  I  '11  teach  you  to  play  solitaire." 

"  What  is  solitaire  ? "  asked  Lady  Jane,  brightening  visibly. 

"It  's  a  game  of  cards,"  and  Pepsie  nodded  toward  the  table; 
"  I  was  playing  when  you  came.  It  's  very  amusing.  Now  tell  me 
about  your  bird.  Where  did  you  get  him  ?  " 


60  LADY    JANE. 

"  A  boy  gave  him  to  me  —  a  nice  boy.  It  was  on  the  cars,  and 
mama  said  I  could  have  him ;  that  was  before  mama's  dear  head 
ached  so.  It  ached  so,  she  could  n't  speak  afterward." 

"  And  have  n't  you  a  doll  ?  "  interrupted  Pepsie,  seeing  that  the 
child  was  approaching  dangerous  ground. 

"  A  doll  ?  Oh  yes,  I  've  got  ever  so  many  at  the  ranch ;  but 
I  have  n't  any  here.  Tante  Pauline  promised  me  one,  but  she 
has  n't  got  it  yet." 

"  Well,  never  mind ;  I  '11  make  you  one ;  I  make  lovely  dolls  for 
my  little  cousins,  the  Paichoux.  I  must  tell  you  about  the  Paichoux. 
There  is  Uncle  Paichoux,  and  Tante  Modeste,  and  Marie,  the  eldest, — 
she  has  taken  her  first  communion,  and  goes  to  balls, —  and  then 
there  is  Tiburce,  a  big  boy,  and  Sophie  and  Nanette,  and  a  lot  of 
little  ones,  all  good,  pleasant  children,  so  healthy  and  so  happy, 
Uncle  Paichoux  is  a  dairyman ;  they  live  on  Frenchman  Street, 
way,  way  down  where  it  is  like  the  country,  and  they  have  a  big 
house,  a  great  deal  larger  than  any  house  in  this  neighborhood, 
with  a  garden,  and  figs  and  peaches,  and  lovely  pomegranates  that 
burst  open  when  they  are  ripe,  and  Marie  has  roses  and  crape 
myrtle  and  jasmine.  It  is  lovely  there — just  lovely.  I  went  there 
once,  long  ago,  before  my  back  hurt  me  so  much." 

"  Does  your  back  hurt  you  now  ? "  interrupted  Lady  Jane, 
diverted  from  the  charming  description  of  the  Paichoux  home  by 
sudden  sympathy  for  the  speaker. 

"  Yes,  sometimes ;  you  see  how  crooked  it  is.  It  's  all  grown 
out,  and  I  can't  bear  to  be  jolted ;  that  's  why  I  never  go  any 
where  ;  besides,  I  can't  walk,"  added  Pepsie,  feeling  a  secret  satis 
faction  in  enumerating  her  ills.  "  But  it  's  my  back ;  my  back  's 
the  worst." 

"  What  ails  it  ?  "  asked  Lady  Jane,  with  the  deepest  sympathy  in 
her  grave  little  voice. 


LADY    ^ANE.  6 1 

"  I  've  got  a  spine  in  my  back,  and  the  doctor  says  I  '11  never  get 
over  it.  It  's  something  when  you  once  get  it  that  you  can't  be 
cured  of,  and  it  's  mighty  bad ;  but  I  Ve  got  used  to  it  now,"  and 
she  smiled  at  Lady  Jane;  a  smile  full  of  patience  and  resignation. 
"I  was  n't  always  so  bad,"  she  went  on  cheerfully,  " before  papa 
died.  You  see  papa  was  a  fireman,  and  he  was  killed  in  a  fire  when 
I  was  very  small ;  but  before  that  he  used  to  take  me  out  in  his  arms, 
and  sometimes  I  used  to  go  out  in  Tante  Modeste's  milk-cart  —  such 
a  pretty  cart,  painted  red,  and  set  up  on  two  high  wheels,  and  in 
front  there  are  two  great  cans,  as  tall  as  you  are,  and  they  shine 
like  silver,  and  little  measures  hang  on  the  spouts  where  the  milk 
comes  out,  and  over  the  seat  is  a  top  just  like  a  buggy  top,  which 
they  put  up  when  the  sun  is  too  hot,  or  it  rains.  Oh,  it  's  just 
beautiful  to  sit  up  on  that  high  seat,  and  go  like  the  wind !  I  re 
member  how  it  felt  on  my  face,"  and  Pepsie  leaned  back  and  closed 
her  eyes  in  ecstasy,  "and  then  the  milk!  When  I  was  thirsty, 
Tante  Modeste  would  give  me  a  cup  of  milk  out  of  the  big  can,  and 
it  was  so  sweet  and  fresh.  Some  day  I  'm  sure  she  '11  take  you, 
and  then  you  '11  know  how  it  all  was;  but  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  go 
again,  because  I  can't  bear  the  jolting;  and  besides,"  said  Pepsie,  with 
a  very  broad  smile  of  satisfaction,  "  I  'm  so  well  off  here ;  I  can  see 
everything,  and  everybody,  so  I  don't  mind;  and  then  I  've  been  once, 
and  know  just  what  it 's  like  to  go  fast  with  the  wind  in  my  face." 

"  I  used  to  ride  on  my  pony  with  papa,"  began  Lady  Jane,  her 
memory  of  the  past  awakened  by  the  description  of  Pepsie's  drive. 
"  My  pony  was  named  Sunflower,  now  I  remember,"  and  her  little 
face  grew  radiant,  and  her  eyes  sparkled  with  joy ;  "  papa  used  to 
put  me  on  Sunflower,  and  mama  was  afraid  I  'd  fall."  Then  the 
brief  glow  faded  out  of  her  face,  for  she  heard  Madame  Jozain  call 
across  the  street,  "  Lady  !  Lady !  Come,  child,  come.  It  's  nearly 
dark,  and  time  you  were  in  bed." 


62  LADY   JANE, 


With  touching  docility,  and  without  the  least  hesitation,  she 
gathered  up  Tony,  who  was  standing  on  one  leg  under  her  chair, 
and,  holding  up  her  face  for  Pepsie  to  kiss,  she  said  good-by.  ^ 

"  And  you  '11  come  again  in  the  morning,"  cried  Pepsie,  hugging 
her  fondly ;   "  you  '11  be  sure  to  come  in  the  morning." 
And  Lady  Jane  said  yes. 


CHAPTER  X 

LADY    JANE    FINDS    OTHER    FRIENDS 

THUS  Lady  Jane's  new  life,  in  the  quaint  old  Rue  des  Bons 
Enfants,  began  under  quite  pleasant  auspices.  From  the 
moment  that  Pepsie,  with  a  silent  but  not  unrecorded  vow, 
constituted  herself  the  champion  and  guardian  angel  of  the  lonely 
little  stranger,  she  was  surrounded  by  friends,  and  hedged  in  with 
the  most  loyal  affection. 

Because  Pepsie  loved  the  child,  the  good  Madelon  loved  her  also, 
and  although  she  saw  her  but  seldom,  being  obliged  to  leave  home 
early  and  return  late,  she  usually  left  her  some  substantial  token 
of  good  will,  in  the  shape  of  cakes  or  pralines,  or  some  odd  little 
toy  that  she  picked  up  on  Bourbon  Street  on  her  way  to  and  from 
her  stand. 

Madelon  was  a  pleasant-faced,  handsome  woman,  always  clean 
and  always  cheery ;  no  matter  how  hard  the  day  had  been  for  her, 
whether  hot  or  cold,  rainy  or  dusty,  she  returned  home  at  night 
as  fresh  and  cheerful  as  when  she  went  out  in  the  morning. 
Pepsie  adored  her  mother,  and  no  two  human  beings  were  ever 
happier  than  they  when  the  day's  work  was  over,  and  they  sat 
down  together  to  their  little  supper. 

Then  Pepsie  recounted  to  her  mother  everything  that  had 
happened  during  the  day,  or  at  least  everything  that  had  come 
within  her  line  of  vision  as  she  sat  at  her  window ;  and  Madelon 
in  turn  would  tell  her  of  all  she  had  heard  out  in  her  world,  the 
world  of  the  Rue  Bourbon,  and  after  the  advent  of  Lady  Jane  the 
child  was  a  constant  theme  of  conversation  between  them.  Her 

63 


64  LADY    JANE. 

beauty,  her  intelligence,  her  pretty  manners,  her  charming  little 
ways  were  a  continual  wonder  to  the  homely  woman  and  girl,  who 
had  seen  little  beyond  their  own  sphere  of  life. 

If  Madelon  was  fortunate  enough  to  get  home  early,  she  always 
found  Lady  Jane  with  Pepsie,  and  the  loving  way  with  which  the 
child  would  spring  to  meet  her,  clinging  to  her  neck  and  nestling  to 
her  broad  motherly  bosom,  showed  how  deeply  she  needed  the 
maternal  affection  so  freely  lavished  upon  her. 

At  first  Madame  Jozain  affected  to  be  a  little  averse  to  such  a 
close  intimacy,  and  even  went  so  far  as  to  say  to  Madame  Fernandez, 
the  tobacconist's  wife,  who  sat  all  day  with  her  husband  in  his  little 
shop  rolling  cigarettes  and  selling  lottery  tickets,  that  she  did  not 
like  her  niece  to  be  much  with  the  lame  girl  opposite,  whose  mother 
was  called  "  Bonne  Praline."  Perhaps  they  were  honest  people,  and 
would  do  the  child  no  harm ;  but  a  woman  who  was  never  called 
madame,  and  who  sat  all  day  on  the  Rue  Bourbon,  was  likely  to 
have  the  manners  of  the  streets.  And  Lady  Jane  had  never  been 
thrown  with  such  people ;  she  had  been  raised  very  carefully,  and 
she  did  n't  want  her  to  lose  her  pretty  manners. 

Madame  Fernandez  agreed  that  Madelon  was  not  over-refined, 
and  that  Pepsie  lacked  the  accomplishments  of  a  young  lady.  "  But 
they  are  very  honest,"  she  said,  "and  the  girl  has  a  generous  heart, 
and  is  so  patient  and  cheerful ;  besides,  Madelon  has  a  sister  who  is 
rich.  Monsieur  Paichoux,  her  sister's  husband,  is  very  well  off,  a 
solid  man,  with  a  large  dairy  business ;  and  their  daughter  Marie, 
who  just  graduated  at  the  Sacred  Heart,  is  very  pretty,  and  is  fiancee 
to  a  young  man  of  superior  family,  a  son  of  Judge  Guiot,  and  you 
know  who  the  Guiots  are." 

Yes,  madame  knew.  Her  father,  Pierre  Bergeron,  and  Judge 
Guiot  had  always  been  friends,  and  the  families  had  visited  in  other 
days.  If  that  was  the  case,  the  Paichoux  must  be  very  respectable ; 


LADY   JANE.  65 

and  if  "  Bonne  Praline"  was  the  sister-in-law  of  a  Paichoux,  and  pros 
pective  aunt-in-law  to  the  son  of  a  judge,  there  was  no  reason  why 
she  should  keep  the  child  away ;  therefore  she  allowed  her  to  go 
whenever  she  wished,  which  was  from  the  time  she  was  out  of  bed 
in  the  morning  until  it  was  quite  dark  at  night. 

Lady  Jane  shared  Pepsie's  meals,  and  sat  at  the  table  with  her, 
learning  to  crack  and  shell  pecans  with  such  wonderful  facility  that 
Pepsie's  task  was  accomplished  some  hours  sooner,  therefore  she 
had  a  good  deal  of  time  each  day  to  devote  to  her  little  friend.  And 
it  was  very  amusing  to  witness  Pepsie's  motherly  care  for  the  child. 
She  bathed  her,  and  brushed  her  long  silken  hair ;  she  trimmed  her 
bang  to  the  most  becoming  length ;  she  dressed  her  with  the  great 
est  taste,  and  tied  her  sash  with  the  chic  of  a  French  milliner;  she 
examined  the  little  pink  nails  and  pearls  of  teeth  to  see  if  they  were 
perfectly  clean,  and  she  joined  with  Lady  Jane  in  rebelling  against 
madame's  decree  that  the  child  should  go  barefoot  while  the 
weather  was  warm.  "All  the  little  Creoles  did,  and  she  was  not 
going  to  buy  shoes  for  the  child  to  knock  out  every  day."  There 
fore,  when  her  shoes  were  worn,  Madelon  bought  her  a  neat  little 
pair  on  the  Rue  Bourbon,  and  Pepsie  darned  her  stockings  and 
sewed  on  buttons  and  strings  with  the  most  exemplary  patience. 
When  madame  complained  that,  with  all  the  business  she  had  to 
attend  to,  the  white  frocks  were  too  much  trouble  and  expense 
to  keep  clean,  Tite  Souris,  who  was  a  fair  laundress,  begged  that 
she  might  be  allowed  to  wash  them,  which  she  did  with  such  good 
will  that  Lady  Jane  was  always  neat  and  dainty. 

Gradually  the  sorrowful,  neglected  look  disappeared  from  her 
small  face,  and  she  became  rosy  and  dimpled  again,. and  as  contented 
and  happy  a  child  as  ever  was  seen  in  Good  Children  Street.  Every 
one  in  the  neighborhood  knew  her ;  the  gracious,  beautiful  little  crea 
ture,  with  her  blue  heron,  became  one  of  the  sights  of  the  quarter. 


66  LADY    JANE. 

She  was  a  picture  and  a  poem  in  one  to  the  homely,  good-natured 
Creoles,  and  everywhere  she  went  she  carried  sunshine  with  her. 


MR.  GEX  AT  THE  DOOR  OF  HIS  SHOP. 


Little  Gex,  a  tiny,  shrunken,  bent  Frenchman,  who  kept  a  small 
fruit  and  vegetable  stall  just  above  Madelon's,  felt  that  the  day  had 


LADY   JANE.  67 

been  dark  indeed  when  Lady  Jane's  radiant  little  face  did  not  illume 
his  dingy  quarters.  How  his  old,  dull  eyes  would  brighten  when  he 
heard  her  cheery  voice,  ''Good  morning,  Mr.  Gex;  Tante  Pauline" 
— or  Pepsie,  as  the  case  might  be — "would  like  a  nickel  of  apples, 
onions,  or  carrots  " ;  and  the  orange  that  was  always  given  her  for 
lagniappe  was  received  with  a  charming  smile,,  and  a  ''Thank  you," 
that  went  straight  to  the  old,  withered  heart. 

Gex  was  a  quiet,  polite  little  man,  who  seldom  held  any  conver 
sation  with  his  customers  beyond  the  simple  requirements  of  his 
business ;  and  children,  as  a  general  thing,  he  detested,  for  the  rea 
son  that  the  ill-bred  little  imps  in  the  neighborhood  made  him  the 
butt  of  their  mischievous  ridicule,  for  his  appearance  was  droll  in 
the  extreme :  his  small  face  was  destitute  of  beard  and  as  wrinkled 
as  a  withered  apple,  and  he  usually  wore  a  red  handkerchief  tied 
over  his  bald  head  with  the  ends  hanging  under  his  chin ;  his  dress 
consisted  of  rather  short  and  very  wide  trousers,  a  little  jacket, 
and  an  apron  that  reached  nearly  to  his  feet.  This  very  quaint 
costume  gave  him  a  nondescript,  appearance,  which  excited  the 
mirth  of  the  juvenile  population  to  such  a  degree  that  they  did  not 
always  restrain  it  within  proper  bounds.  Therefore  it  was  very  sel 
dom  that  a  child  entered  his  den,  and  such  a  thing  as  one  receiving 
lagniappe  was  quite  unheard  of. 

All  day  long  he  sat  on  his  small  wooden  chair  behind  the  shelf 
across  his  window,  on  which  was  laid  in  neat  piles  oranges,  apples, 
sweet  potatoes,  onions,  cabbages,  and  even  the  odorous  garlic ;  they 
were  always  sound  and  clean,  and  for  that  reason,  even  if  he  did  not 
give  lagniappe  to  small  customers,  he  had  a  fair  trade  in  the  neigh 
borhood.  And  he  was  very  neat  and  industrious.  When  he  was 
not  engaged  in  preparing  his  vegetables,  he  was  always  tinkering 
at  something  of  interest  to  himself;  he  could  mend  china  and  glass, 
clocks  and  jewelry,  shoes  and  shirts ;  he  washed  and  patched  his 


6S  LADY    JANE. 

own  wardrobe,  and  darned  his  own  stockings.  Often  when  a  cus 
tomer  came  in  he  would  push  his  spectacles  upon  his  forehead,  lay 
down  his  stocking  and  needle,  and  deal  out  his  cabbage  and  carrots 
as  unconcernedly  as  if  he  had  been  engaged  in  a  more  manly 
occupation. 

From  some  of  the  dingy  corners  of  his  den  he  had  unearthed 
an  old  chair,  very  stiff  and  high,  and  entirely  destitute  of  a  bottom ; 
this  he  cleaned  and  repaired  by  nailing  across  the  frame  an  orange- 
box  cover  decorated  with  a  very  bright  picture,  and  one  day  he 
charmed  Lady  Jane  by  asking  her  to  sit  down  and  eat  her  orange 
while  he  mended  his  jacket. 

She  declined  eating  her  orange,  as  she  always  shared  it  with 
Pepsie,  but  accepted  the  invitation  to  be  seated.  Placing  Tony  to 
forage  on  a  basket  of  refuse  vegetables,  she  climbed  into  the  chair, 
placed  her  little  heels  on  the  topmost  rung,  smoothed  down  her 
short  skirt,  and,  resting  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  leaned  her  rosy 
little  cheeks  on  her  palms,  and  set  herself  to  studying  Gex  seriously 
and  critically.  At  length,  her  curiosity  overcoming  her  diffidence, 
she  said  in  a  very  polite  tone,  but  with  a  little  hesitation:  "  Mr.  Gex, 
are  you  a  man  or  a  woman  ? " 

Gex,  for  the  moment,  was  fairly  startled  out  of  himself,  and, 
perhaps  for  the  first  time  in  years,  he  threw  back  his  head  and 
laughed  heartily. 

"Bon!  bon!  'T  is  good;  't  is  vairy  good.  Vhy,  my  leetle  lady, 
sometime  I  don't  know  myself;  'cause,  you  see,  I  have  to  be  both 
the  man  and  the  voman ;  but  vhy  in  the  vorld  did  you  just  ask  me 
such  a  funny  question  ?  " 

"  Because,  Mr.  Gex,"  replied  Lady  Jane,  very  gravely,  "  I  've 
thought  about  it  often.  Because  —  men  don't  sew,  and  wear 
aprons, — and — women  don't  wear  trousers;  so,  you  see,  I  could  n't 
tell  which  you  were." 


LADY   JANE.  69 

<•'  Oh,  mafoi!  "  and  again  Gex  roared  with  laughter  until  a  neigh 
bor,  who  was  passing,  thought  he  had  gone  crazy,  and  stopped  to 
look  at  him  with  wonder ;  but  she  only  saw  him  leaning  back,  laugh 
ing  with  all  his  might,  while  Lady  Jane  sat  looking  at  him  with  a 
frowning,  flushed  face,  as  if  she  was  disgusted  at  his  levity. 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  laugh  so,"  she  said  loftily,  straightening 
up  in  her  chair,  and  regarding  Gex  as  if  he  had  disappointed  her. 
"  I  think  it  's  very  bad  for  you  to  have  no  one  to  mend  your  clothes, 
and  — and  to  have  to  sew  like  a  woman,  if — if  you  're  a  man." 

"  Vhy,  bless  your  leetle  heart,  so  it  is ;  but  you  see  I  am  just  one 
poor,  lonely  creature,  and  it  don't  make  much  difference  vhether 
I  'm  one  or  t'  other;  nobody  cares  now." 

"I  do,"  returned  Lady  Jane  brightly ;  "  and  I  'm  glad  I  know, 
because,  when  Pepsie  teaches  me  to  sew,  /  'm  going  to  mend  your 
clothes,  Mr.  Gex." 

"Veil,  you  are  one  leetle  angel,"  exclaimed  Gex,  quite  overcome. 
"  Here,  take  another  orange." 

"  Oh,  no ;   thank  you.     I  Ve  only  bought  one  thing,  and   I  can't 
take  two  lagniappes ;  that  would  be  wrong.     But  I  must  go  now." 
And,  jumping  down,  she  cook  Tony  from  his  comfortable  nest 
among  the  cabbage-leaves,  and  with   a  polite  good-by  she  darted 
out,  leaving  the  dingy  little  shop  darker  for  her  going. 

For  a  long  time  after  she  went  Gex  sat  looking  thoughtfully  at 
his  needlework.  Then  he  sighed  heavily,  and  muttered  to  himself: 
"  If  Marie  had  lived  !  If  she  'd  lived,  I  'd  been  more  of  a  man." 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE    VISIT    TO    THE    PAICHOUX 

ONE  bright  morning  in  October,  while  Pepsie  and  Lady  Jane 
were  very  busy  over  their  pecans,  there  was  a  sudden  rat 
tling  of  wheels  and  jingling  of  cans,  and  Tante  Modeste's 
milk-cart,  gay  in  a  fresh  coat  of  red  paint,  with  the  shining  cans, 
and  smart    little   mule    in    a    bright   harness,   drew   up  before   the 
door,   and  Tante   Modeste  herself  jumped   briskly  down  from  the 
high  seat,  and  entered  like  a  fresh  breath  of  spring. 

She  and  Madelon  were  twin  sisters,  and  very  much  alike ;  the 
same  large,  fair  face,  the  same  smooth,  dark  hair  combed  straight 
back  from  the  forehead,  and  twisted  in  a  glossy  knot  at  the  back, 
and  like  Madelon  she  wore  a  stiffly  starched,  light  calico  gown, 
finished  at  the  neck  with  a  muslin  scarf  tied  in  a  large  bow ;  her 
head  was  bare,  and  in  her  ears  she  wore  gold  hoops,  and  around 
her  neck  was  a  heavy  chain  of  the  same  precious  metal. 

When  Pepsie  saw  her  she  held  out  her  arms,  flushing  with 
pleasure,  and  cried  joyfully:  "  Oh,  Tante  Modeste,  how  glad  I  am! 
I  thought  you  'd  forgotten  to  come  for  Lady  Jane." 

Tante  Modeste  embraced  her  niece  warmly,  and  then  caught 
Lady  Jane  to  her  heart  just  as  Madelon  did.  "  Forgotten  her?  Oh, 
no ;  I  Ve  thought  of  her  all  the  time  since  I  was  here ;  but  I  Ve  been 
so  busy." 

"  What  about,  Tante  Modeste  ?  "  asked  Pepsie  eagerly. 
"  Oh,  you  can't  think  how  your  cousin  Marie  is  turning  us  upside 
down,  since  she  decided  to  be  a  lady."    Here  Tante  Modeste  made 


LADY   JANE.  71 

a  little  grimace  of  disdain.  "  She  must  have  our  house  changed, 
and  her  papa  can't  say  '  no '  to  her.  I  like  it  best  as  it  was,  but 
Marie  must  have  paint  and  carpets;  think  of  it — carpets!  But  I 
draw  the  line  at  the  parlor — the  salon"  and  again  Tante  Modeste 
shrugged  and  laughed.  "  She  wants  a  salon ;  well,  she  shall 
have  a  salon  just  as  she  likes  it,  and  I  will  have  the  other  part  of 
the  house  as  I  like  it.  Just  imagine,  your  uncle  has  gone  on  Rue 
Royale,  and  bought  a  mirror,  a  console,  a  cabinet,  a  sofa,  and  a 
carpet." 

"  Oh,  oh,  Tante  Modeste,  how  lovely ! "  cried   Pepsie,  clasping 
her   hands    in    admiration.     "  I   wish    I    could    see    the    parlor  just 


once." 


"  You  shall,  my  dear;  you  shall,  if  you  have  to  be  brought  on 
a  bed.  When  there's  a  wedding," — and  she  nodded  brightly,  as 
much  as  to  say,  "and  there  will  be  one  soon," — "  you  shall  be  brought 
there.  I  '11  arrange  it  so  you  can  come  comfortably,  my  dear.  Have 
patience,  you  shall  come." 

"  How  good  you  are,  Tante  Modeste,"  cried  Pepsie,  enraptured  at 
the  promise  of  such  happiness. 

"  But  now,  cherie"  she  said,  turning  to  Lady  Jane,  whose  little 
face  was  expressing  in  pantomime  her  pleasure  at  Pepsie's  delight, 
"I  Ve  come  for  you  this  morning  to  take  you  a  ride  in  the  cart,  as 
I  promised." 

"  Tante  Pauline  does  n't  know,"  began  Lady  Jane  dutifully.  "I 
must  go  and  ask  her  if  I  can." 

"  I  '11  send  Tite,"  cried  Pepsie,  eager  to  have  the  child  enjoy  what 
to  her  seemed  the  greatest  pleasure  on  earth. 

"  Here,  Tite,"  she  said,  as  the  black  visage  appeared  at  the  door. 
"  Run  quick  across  to  Madame  Jozain,  and  ask  if  Miss  Lady  can  go 
to  ride  in  the  milk-cart  with  Madame  Paichoux ;  and  bring  me  a  clean 
frock  and  her  hat  and  sash." 


72  LADY    JANE. 

Tite  flew  like  the  wind,  her  black  legs  making  zig-zag  strokes 
across  the  street,  while  Pepsie  brushed  the  child's  beautiful  hair  until 
it  shone  like  gold. 

Madame  Jozain  did  not  object.  Of  course,  a  milk-cart  was  n't  a 
carriage,  but  then  Lady  Jane  was  only  a  child,  and  it  did  n't  matter. 


TANTE   MODESTE   TAKES    LADY   JANE   TO    RIDE    IN    THE   MILK-WAGON. 

While  Pepsie  was  putting  the  finishing  touches  to  Lady  Jane's 
toilet,  Tante  Modeste  and  Tite  Souris  were  busy  bringing  various 
packages  from  the  milk-cart  to  the  little  room ;  butter,  cream, 
cheese,  sausage,  a  piece  of  pig,  and  a  fine  capon.  When  Tante 
Modeste  came,  she  always  left  a  substantial  proof  of  her  visit. 


LADY    JANE.  73 

There  was  only  one  drawback  to  Lady  Jane's  joy,  and  that  was 
the  necessity  of  leaving  Tony  behind. 

"  You  might  take  him,"  said  Tante  Modeste,  good-naturedly, 
"but  there  are  so  many  young  ones  home  they  'd  pester  the  bird 
about  to  death,  and  something  might  happen  to  him ;  he  might  get 
away,  and  then  you  'd  never  forgive  us." 

44  I  know  I  must  n't  take  him,"  said  Lady  Jane,  with  sweet  resig 
nation.  "  Dear  Tony,  be  a  good  bird  while  I  'm  gone,  and  you  shall 
have  some  bugs  to-morrow."  Tony  was  something  of  an  epicure, 
and  "bugs,"  as  Lady  Jane  called  them,  extracted  from  cabbage- 
leaves,  were  a  delight  to  him.  Then  she  embraced  him  fondly,  and 
fastened  him  securely  to  Pepsie's  chair,  and  went  away  with  many 
good-bys  and  kisses  for  her  friend,  and  not  a  few  lingering  glances 
for  her  pet. 

It  was  a  perfectly  enchanting  situation  to  Lady  Jane  when 
she  was  mounted  up  on  the  high  seat,  close  under  Tante  Modeste's 
sheltering  wing,  with  her  little  feet  on  the  cream-cheese  box,  and 
the  two  tall  cans  standing  in  front  like  sturdy  tin  footmen  waiting 
for  orders.  Then  Tante  Modeste  pulled  the  top  up  over  their  heads, 
and  shook  her  lines  at  the  fat  little  mule,  and  away  they  clattered 
down  Good  Children  Street,  with  all  the  children  and  all  the  dogs 
running  on  behind. 

It  was  a  long  and  delightful  drive  to  Lady  Jane  before  they 
got  out  of  town  to  where  the  cottages  were  scattered  and  set  in 
broad  fields,  with  trees  and  pretty  gardens.  At  length  they  turned 
out  of  the  beautiful  Esplanade,  with  its  shady  rows  of  trees,  into 
Frenchman  Street,  and  away  down  the  river  they  stopped  before 
a  large  double  cottage  that  stood  well  back  from  the  street,  sur 
rounded  by  trees  and  flowers ;  a  good-natured,  healthy-looking  boy 
threw  open  the  gate,  and  Tante  Modeste  clattered  into  the  yard, 
calling  out : 


74  LADY   JANE. 

"  Here,  Tiburce,  quick,  my  boy ;  unhitch  the  mule,  and  turn  him 
out."  The  little  animal  understood  perfectly  well  what  she  said,  and 
shaking  his  long  ears  he  nickered  approvingly. 

Lady  Jane  was  lifted  down  from  her  high  perch  by  Paichoux 
himself,  who  gave  her  a  right  cordial  welcome,  and  in  a  moment 
she  was  surrounded  by  Tante  Modeste's  good-natured  brood.  At 
first  she  felt  a  little  shy,  there  were  so  many,  and  they  were  such 
noisy  children ;  but  they  were  so  kind  and  friendly  toward  her  that 
they  soon  won  her  confidence  and  affection. 

That  day  was  a  "  red-letter  day  "  to  Lady  Jane ;  she  was  intro 
duced  to  all  the  pets  of  the  farm-yard,  the  poultry,  the  dogs,  the 
kittens,  the  calves,  the  ponies,  and  little  colts,  and  the  great  soft 
motherly  looking  cows  that  stood  quietly  in  rows  to  be  milked ;  and 
afterward  they  played  under  the  trees  in  the  grass,  while  they 
gathered  roses  by  the  armful  to  carry  to  Pepsie,  and  filled  a 
basket  with  pecans  for  Madelon. 

She  was  feasted  on  gumbo,  fried  chicken,  rice-cakes,  and  deli 
cious  cream  cheese  until  she  could  eat  no  more ;  she  was  caressed 
and  petted  to  her  heart's  content  from  the  pretty  Marie  down  to 
the  smallest  white-headed  Paichoux  ;  she  saw  the  fine  parlor,  the 
mirror,  the  pictures,  the  cabinet  of  shells,  and  the  vases  of  wax- 
flowers,  and,  to  crown  all,  Paichoux  himself  lifted  her  on  Tiburce's 
pony  and  rode  her  around  the  yard  several  times,  while  Tante 
Modeste  made  her  a  beautiful  cake,  frosted  like  snow,  with  her  name 
in  pink  letters  across  the  top. 

At  last,  when  the  milk-cart  came  around  with  its  evening  load 
of  fresh  milk  for  waiting  customers,  Lady  Jane  was  lifted  up  again 
beside  Tante  Modeste,  overloaded  with  presents,  caresses,  and  good 
wishes,  the  happiest  child,  as  well  as  the  tiredest,  that  ever  rode  in 
a  milk-cart. 

Long  before  they  reached  the  noisy  city  streets,  Lady  Jane 
became  very  silent,  and  Tante  Modeste  peeped  under  the  broad 


LADY   JANE.  75 

hat  to  see  if  she  had  fallen  asleep ;  but  no,  the  blue  eyes  were  wide 
and  wistful,  and  the  little  face  had  lost  its  glow  of  happiness. 

"  Are  you  tired,  cherie?"  asked  Tante  Modeste  kindly. 

"  No,  thank  you,"  she  replied,  with  a  soft  sigh.  "  I  was  thinking 
of  papa,  and  Sunflower,  and  the  ranch,  and  dear  mama.  Oh,  I  wonder 
if  she'll  come  back  soon." 

Tante  Modeste  made  no  reply,  but  she  fell  to  thinking  too. 
There  was  something  strange  about  it  all  that  she  could  n't  under 
stand. 

The  child's  remarks  and  Madame  Jozain's  stories  did  not  agree. 
There  was  a  mystery,  and  she  meant  to  get  at  the  bottom  of  it  by 
some  means.  And  when  Tante  Modeste  set  out  to  accomplish  a  thing 
she  usually  succeeded. 


CHAPTER   XII 
XANTE  MODESTE'S  SUSPICIONS 

AICHOUX,"  said  Tante  Modeste  to  her  husband,  that  same 
night,  before  the  tired  dairyman  went  to  bed;  "I  Ve  been 
thinking  of  something  all  the  evening." 

"  Vraiment!  I  'm  surprised,"  returned  Paichoux  facetiously;  "I 
did  n't  know  you  ever  wasted  time  thinking." 

"  I  don't  usually,"  went  on  Tante  Modeste,  ignoring  her  hus 
band's  little  attempt  at  pleasantry;  "but  really,  papa,  this  thing  is 
running  through  my  head  constantly.  It  's  about  that  little  girl  of 
Madame  Jozain's ;  there 's  something  wrong  about  the  menage  there. 
That  child  is  no  more  a  Joz'ain  than  I  am.  A  Jozain,  indeed  !  —  she  's 
a  little  aristocrat,  if  ever  there  was  one,  a  born  little  lady." 

"  Perhaps  she  's  a  Bergeron,"  suggested  Paichoux,  with  a  quizzical 
smile.  "Madame  prides  herself  on  being  a  Bergeron,  and  the  Ber 
gerons  are  fairly  decent  people.  Old  Bergeron,  the  baker,  was  an 
honest  man." 

"  That  may  be ;  but  she  is  n't  a  Bergeron,  either.  That  child  is 
different,  you  can  see  it.  Look  at  her  beside  our  young  ones. 
Why,  she  's  a  swan  among  geese." 

"  Well,  that  happens  naturally  sometimes,"  said  the  philosophic 
Paichoux.  "  I  Ve  seen  it  over  and  over  in  common  breeds.  It  's 
an  accident,  but  it  happens.  In  a  litter  of  curs,  there  '11  be  often 
one  stylish  dog ;  the  puppies  '11  grow  up  together ;  but  there  '11  be 
one  different  from  the  others,  and  the  handsomest  one  may  not 
be  the  smartest,  but  he  '11  be  the  master,  and  get  the  best  of  every - 

76 


LADY   JANE.  77 

thing.  Now  look  at  that  black  filly  of  mine ;  where  did  she  get 
her  style  ?  Not  from  either  father  or  mother.  It  's  an  accident — 
an  accident, — and  it  may  be  with  children  as  it  is  with  puppies  and 
colts,  and  that  little  one  may  be  an  example  of  it." 

"Nonsense,  Paichoux  !  "  said  Tante  Modeste  sharply.  " There  's 
no  accident  about  it;  there  's  a  mystery,  and  Madame  Jozain 
does  n't  tell  the  truth  when  she  talks  about  the  child.  I  can  feel 
it  even  when  she  does  n't  contradict  herself.  The  other  day  I 
stepped  in  there  to  buy  Marie  a  ribbon,  and  I  spoke  about  the 
child ;  in  fact,  I  asked  which  side  she  came  from,  and  madame 
answered  very  curtly  that  her  father  was  a  Jozain.  Now  this  is 
what  set  me  to  thinking :  To-day,  when  Pepsie  was  putting  a  clean 
frock  on  the  child,  I  noticed  that  her  underclothing  was  marked 
'J.  C.'  Remember,  J.  C.  Well,  the  day  that  I  was  in  madame's 
shop,  she  said  to  me  in  her  smooth  way  that  she  'd  heard  of  Marie's 
intended  marriage,  and  that  she  had  something  superior,  exquisite, 
that  she  'd  like  to  show  me.  Then  she  took  a  box  out  of  her 
armoire,  and  in  it  were  a  number  of  the  most  beautiful  sets  of  linen 
I  ever  saw,  batiste  as  fine  as  cobwebs  and  real  lace.  *  They  're 
just  what  you  need  for  mademoiselle?  she  said  in  her  wheedling 
tone ;  '  since  she  's  going  to  marry  into  such  a  distinguished  family, 
you  '11  want  to  give  her  the  best.' 

"  'They  're  too  fine  for  my  daughter,'  I  answered,  as  I  turned 
them  over  and  examined  them  carefully.  They  were  the  hand 
somest  things !  —  and  on  every  piece  was  a  pretty  little  embroidered 
monogram,  J.  C. ;  mind  you,  the  same  as  the  letters  on  the  child's 
clothes.  Then  I  asked  her  right  out,  for  it  's  no  use  mincing 
matters  with  such  a  woman,  where  in  the  world  she  got  such 
lovely  linen. 

"  'They  belonged  to  my  niece,' she  said,  with  a  hypocritical  sigh, 
'  and  I  'd  like  to  sell  them ;  they  're  no  good  to  the  child  ;  before 


78  LADY    JANE. 

she  's   grown  up  they  '11  be  spoiled  with  damp  and  mildew ;  I  'd 
rather  have  the  money  to  educate  her/ 

"  '  But  the  monogram ;  it 's  a  pity  they  're  marked  J.  C.'  I  repeated 
the  letters  over  to  see  what  she  would  say,  and  as  I  live  she  was 
ready  for  me. 

"  '  No,  madame  ;  it  's  C.  J. —  Claire  Jozain  ;  her  name  was  Claire, 
you  're  looking  at  it  wrong,  and  really  it  don't  matter  much  how 
the  letters  are  placed,  for  they  're  always  misleading,  you  never 
know  which  comes  first;  and,  dear  Madame  Paichoux,' — she  deared 
me,  and  that  made  me  still  more  suspicious, —  'don't  you  see  that 
the  C  might  easily  be  mistaken  for  G?  —  and  no  one  will  notice  the 
J,  it  looks  so  much  like  a  part  of  the  vine  around  it.  I  '11  make 
them  a  bargain  if  you  '11  take  them.' 

"  I  told  her  no,  that  they  were  too  fine  for  my  girl;  par  exemplef 
as  if  I  'd  let  Marie  wear  stolen  clothes,  perhaps." 

"Hush,  hush,  Modeste!"  exclaimed  Paichoux;  "you  might  get 
in  the  courts  for  that." 

"  Or  get  her  there,  which  would  be  more  to  the  purpose.  I  'd  like 
to  know  when  and  where  that  niece  died,  and  who  was  with  her; 
besides,  the  child  says  such  strange  things,  now  and  then,  that  they 
set  one  to  thinking.  To-day  when  I  was  taking  her  home,  she  began 
to  talk  about  the  ranch,  and  her  papa  and  mama.  Sometimes  I  think 
they  've  stolen  her." 

"  Oh,  Modeste  !  The  woman  is  n't  as  bad  as  that ;  I  Ve  never  heard 
anything  against  her''  interrupted  the  peaceable  Paichoux,  "she 's  got 
a  bad  son,  it 's  true.  That  boy,  Raste,  is  his  father  over  again.  Why, 
I  hear  he  's  already  been  in  the  courts ;  but  she  's  all  right  as  far  as 
I  know." 

"  Well,  we  '11  see,"  said  Tante  Modeste,  oracularly ;  "but  I  'm  not 
satisfied  about  that  monogram.  It  was  J.  C.,  as  sure  as  I  live,  and 
not  C.  J." 


LADY    JANE.  79 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what  we  '11  do,  mama,"  said  Paichoux,  after  some  de 
liberate  thought,  he  was  slow,  but  he  was  sure,  "  we  '11  keep  a  watch 
on  the  little  one,  and  if  anything  happens,  I  '11  stand  by  her.  You  tell 
sister  Madelon  to  let  me  know  if  anything  happens,  and  I  '11  see  her 
through  all  right." 

"  Then  I  believe  she 's  safe,"  said  Tante  Modeste  proudly,  "for  every 
one  knows  that  when  Paichoux  says  a  thing,  he  means  it." 

If  Madam  Jozain  had  only  known  how  unfavorable  were  the 
comments  of  her  supposed  friends,  she  would  not  have  felt  as  com 
fortable  as  she  did.  Although  she  was  riding  on  the  topmost  wave 
of  prosperity,  as  far  as  her  business  was  concerned,  she  was  not,  as 
I  said  before,  entirely  happy  unless  she  had  the  good  opinion  of 
every  one,  and  for  some  reason,  probably  the  result  of  a  guilty  con 
science,  she  fancied  that  people  looked  askance  at  her  ;  for,  in  spite 
of  her  polite  advances,  she  had  not  succeeded  in  making  friends  of  her 
neighbors.  They  came  to  her  shop  to  chat  and  look,  and  sometimes 
to  buy,  and  she  was  as  civil  to  them  as  it  was  possible  to  be.  She 
gave  them  her  most  comfortable  chairs,  and  pulled  down  everything 
for  them  to  examine,  and  unfolded,  untied,  and  unpacked,  only  to  have 
the  trouble  of  putting  them  all  away  again.  It  was  true  they  bought 
a  good  deal  at  times,  and  she  had  got  rid  of.many  of  "  those  things"  in 
a  quiet  way,  and  at  fair  prices ;  but  still  the  neighbors  kept  her  at  a 
distance ;  they  were  polite  enough,  but  they  were  not  cordial,  and  it 
was  cordiality,  warmth,  admiration,  flattery,  for  which  she  hungered. 
It  was  true  she  had  a  great  deal  to  be  proud  of,  for  Raste  was 
growing  handsomer  and  more  of  a  gentleman  every  day.  He  was 
the  best  looking  fellow  in  the  quarter,  and  he  dressed  so  well, — 
like  his  father,  he  was  large  and  showy, —  and  wore  the  whitest  linen, 
the  gayest  neckties,  and  the  finest  jewelry,  among  which  was  the 
beautiful  watch  of  the  dead  woman.  This  watch  he  was  fond  of  show 
ing  to  his  friends,  and  pointing  out  the  monogram,  C.  J.,  in  diamonds ; 


8o  LADY   JANE. 

for,  like  his  mother,  he  found  it  easy  to  transpose  the  letters  to  suit 
himself. 

All  this  went  a  long  way  with  Raste's  intimates,  and  made  him 
very  popular  among  a  certain  class  of  young  men  who  lived  by  their 
wits  and  yet  kept  up  a  show  of  respectability. 

And  then,  beside  her  satisfaction  in  Raste,  there  was  the  little 
Lady  Jane,  to  whom  every  door  in  the  neighborhood  was  open.  She 
was  the  most  beautiful  and  the  most  stylish  child  that  ever  was  seen 
in  Good  Children  Street,  and  she  attracted  more  attention  than  all 
the  other  people  put  together.  She  never  went  out  but  what  she 
heard  something  flattering  about  the  little  darling,  and  she  knew  that 
a  great  many  people  came  to  the  shop  just  to  get  a  glimpse  of  her. 

All  this  satisfied  her  ambition,  but  not  her  vanity.  She  knew 
that  Lady  Jane  cared  more  for  Pepsie,  Madelon,  or  even  little  Gex, 
than  she  did  for  her.  The  child  was  always  dutiful,  but  never  affec 
tionate.  Sometimes  a  feeling  of  bitterness  would  stir  within  her,  and, 
thinking  she  had  cause  to  complain,  she  would  accuse  the  child  of 
ingratitude. 

"She  is  a  little  ingrate,  a  little  viper,  that  stings  me  after  I 
have  warmed  her.  And  to  think  of  what  I  Ve  done  for  her,  and  the 
worry  and  anxiety  I  Ve  suffered !  After  all,  I  'm  poorly  paid,  and  get 
but  little  for  all  my  studying  and  planning.  She  's  a  little  upstart,  a 
little  aristocrat,  who  will  trample  on  me  some  day.  Well,  it 's  what 
one  gets  in  this  world  for  doing  a  good  deed.  If  I  'd  turned  her  and 
her  mother  out  to  die  in  the  street,  I  'd  been  thought  more  of  than  I 
am  now,  and  perhaps  I  'd  been  as  well  off." 


CHAPTER   XIII 

ONE    OF   THE    NOBILITY 

ON  the  next  block,  above  little  Gex's  fruit  stall  was  a  small 
cottage  set  close  to  the  sidewalk,  with  two  narrow  windows 
covered  with  batten  shutters  that  no  one  remembered  to 
have  ever  seen  opened.  On  one  side  was  a  high  green  fence,  in  which 
was  a  small  door,  and  above  this  fence  some  flowering  trees  were  visi 
ble.  A  pink  crape-myrtle  shed  its  transparent  petals  on  the  sidewalk 
below.  A  white  oleander  and  a  Cape  jasmine  made  the  air  fragrant, 
while  a  "Gold  of  Ophir"  rose,  entwined  with  a  beautiful  "  Reine  Hen- 
riette,"  crept  along  the  top  of  the  fence,  and  hung  in  riotous  profusion 
above  the  heads  of  the  passers. 

Every  day,  in  rain  or  shine,  when  Lady  Jane  visited  little  Gex, 
she  continued  her  walk  to  the  green  fence,  and  stood  looking  wistfully 
at  the  clustering  roses  that  bloomed  securely  beyond  the  reach  of 
pilfering  fingers,  vainly  wishing  that  some  of  them  would  fall  at  her 
feet,  or  that  the  gate  might  accidentally  open,  so  that  she  could  get  a 
peep  within. 

And  Lady  Jane  was  not  more  curious  than  most  of  the  older 
residents  of  Good  Children  Street.  For  many  years  it  had  been  the 
desire  of  the  neighborhood  to  see  what  was  going  on  behind  that 
impenetrable  green  fence.  Those  who  were  lucky  enough  to  get  a 
glimpse,  when  the  gate  was  opened  for  a  moment  to  take  the  nickel 
of  milk,  or  loaf  of  bread,  saw  a  beautiful  little  garden,  carefully 
tended  and  filled  with  exquisite  flowers ;  but  Lady  Jane  was  never 
fortunate  enough  to  be  present  on  one  of  those  rare  occasions,  as 


82  LADY   JANE. 

they  always  happened  very  early,  and  when  her  little  yellow  head  was 
resting  on  its  pillow ;  but  sometimes,  while  she  lingered  on  the  side 
walk,  near  the  gate,  or  under  the  tightly  closed  shutters,  she  would 
hear  the  melodious  song  of  a  bird,  or  the  tinkling,  liquid  sound  of  an 
ancient  piano,  thin  and  clear  as  a  trickling  rivulet,  and  with  it  she 
would  hear  sometimes  a  high,  sweet,  tremulous  voice  singing  an  aria 
from  some  old-fashioned  opera.  Lady  Jane  did  n't  know  that  it  was 
an  old-fashioned  opera,  but  she  thought  it  very  odd  and  beautiful, 
all  the  same ;  and  she  loved  to  linger  and  listen  to  the  correct  but 
feeble  rendering  of  certain  passages  that  touched  her  deeply :  for  the 
child  had  an  inborn  love  of  music  and  one  of  the  most  exquisite 
little  voices  ever  heard. 

Pepsie  used  to  close  her  eyes  in  silent  ecstasy  when  Lady  Jane 
sang  the  few  simple  airs  and  lullabies  she  had  learned  from  her 
mother,  and  when  her  tender  little  voice  warbled 

"  Sleep,  baby,  sleep, 
The  white  moon  is  the  shepherdess, 
The  little  stars  the  sheep," 

Pepsie  would  cover  her  face,  and  cry  silently.  No  one  ever  heard 
her  sing  but  Pepsie.  She  was  very  shy  about  it,  and  if  even  Tite 
Souris  came  into  the  room  she  would  stop  instantly. 

Therefore,  little  Gex  was  very  much  surprised  one  day,  when  he 
went  out  on  the  banquette,  to  see  his  small  favorite  before  the  closed 
shutters  with  Tony  in  her  arms,  his  long  legs  almost  touching  the 
sidewalk,  so  carelessly  was  he  held,  while  his  enraptured  little  mis 
tress  was  standing  with  her  serious  eyes  fixed  steadily  on  the  win 
dow,  her  face  pale  and  illumined  with  a  sort  of  spiritual  light,  her 
lips  parted,  and  a  ripple  of  the  purest,  sweetest,  most  liquid  melody 
issuing  from  between  them  that  Gex  had  ever  heard,  even  in  those 
old  days  when  he  used  to  haunt  the  French  Opera. 


LADY   JANE    WAS   LINGERING    ON    THE    SIDEWALK,    NEAR    THE    GREEN    FENCE." 


LADY   JANE.  85 

He  softly  drew  near  to  listen  ;  she  was  keeping  perfect  time  with 
the  tinkling  piano  and  the  faded  voice  of  the  singer  within,  who  with 
many  a  quaver  and  break  was  singing  a  beautiful  old  French  song ; 
and  the  bird-like  voice  of  the  child  went  up  and  down,  in  and  out 
through  the  difficult  passages  with  wonderful  passion  and  precision. 

Gex  slipped  away  silently,  and  stole  almost  guiltily  into  his  little 
den.  He  had  discovered  one  of  the  child's  secret  pleasures,  as  well 
as  one  of  her  rare  gifts,  and  he  felt  that  he  had  no  right  to  possess 
such  wonderful  knowledge. 

Ma  foil"  he  thought,  wiping  away  a  fugitive  tear,  for  the  music 
had  awakened  slumbering  memories,  "  some  one  ought  to  know  of 
that  voice.  I  wish  Mam'selle  d'Hautreve  was  n't  so  unapproachable  ; 
I  'd  speak  to  her,  and  perhaps  she  'd  teach  the  child." 

Presently  Lady  Jane  entered,  carrying  Tony  languidly;  she  said 
good-morning  as  politely  as  usual,  and  smiled  her  charming  smile, 
but  she  seemed  preoccupied,  and  unusually  serious.  With  a  tired 
sigh  she  dropped  Tony  on  the  floor,  and  climbed  up  to  her  chair, 
where  she  sat  for  some  time  in  deep  thought.  At  length  she  said 
in  an  intensely  earnest  voice:  "  Oh,  Mr.  Gex,  I  wish  I  could  get 
inside  that  gate  some  way.  I  wish  I  could  see  who  it  is  that 
sings." 

"Why,  my  leetle  lady,  it  's  Mam'selle  Diane  vhat  sings  so  fine?" 

"  Who  is  Mam'selle  Diane  ?  " 

"  Mam'selle  Diane  is  the  daughter  of  Madame  d'Hautreve  vhat 
live  all  alone  in  the  leetle  shut-up  house.  Madame  and  Mam'selle 
Diane,  they  are  noblesse,  of  the  nobility.  Veil,  you  don't  know 
vhat  is  that.  Attendez,  I  vill  try  to  make  you  understand." 

"  Is  it    rich  ? "   asked   Lady   Jane,    anxious  to   help  simplify  the 
situation. 

"Oh  no,  no,  they  are  vairy,  vairy  poor;  noblesse  is  vhat  you  're 
born  vith." 


86  LADY    JANE. 

"  Like  the  spine  in  the  back,"  suggested  Lady  Jane  eagerly. 
"  Pepsie  says  you  Ye  born  with  that." 

"  No,  it  's  not  that,"  and  Gex  smiled  a  grim,  puzzled  smile,  and 
pushing  his  spectacles  on  the  top  of  his  head,  he  wiped  his  forehead 
thoughtfully.  "  You  Ve  heard  of  the  king,  my  leetle  lady,  now 
have  n't  you." 

"Oh,  yes,  yes,"  returned  Lady  Jane  brightly.  "They  wear 
crowns  and  sit  on  thrones,  and  Pepsie  says  there  is  a  king  of  the 
carnival,  King  Rex." 

"  Yes,  that  Js  it,"  said  Gex,  rubbing  his  hands  with  satisfaction, 
"and  the  king  is  vay  up  high  over  everybody,  and  all  the  peoples 
must  honor  the  king.  Veil,  the  noblesse  is  something  like  the  king, 
my  leetle  lady,  only  not  quite  so  high  up.  Veil,  Mam'selle's  grand- 
pere  vas  a  noble.  One  of  the  French  noblesse.  Does  my  leetle 
lady  understand  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  do,"  returned  Lady  Jane  doubtfully.  "  Does  she  sit  on 
a  throne  and  wear  a  crown  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  they  are  poor,  vairy  poor,"  said  Gex  humbly,  "  and 
then,  my  leetle  lady  must  know  that  the  comte  is  naiver  so  high  up 
as  the  king,  and  then  they  have  lost  all  their  money  and  are  poor, 
vairy  poor.  Once,  long  ago,  they  vas  rich,  oh,  vairy  rich,  and  they 
had  one  big,  grand  house,  and  the  carriage,  and  the  fine  horses, 
and  many,  many  servant ;  now  there's  only  them  two  vhat  lives  all 
alone  in  the  leetle  house.  The  grandpere,  and  \.\ie  pere,  all  are  dead 
long  ago,  and  Madame  d'Hautreve  and  Mam'selle  Diane  only  are  left 
to  live  in  the  leetle  house,  shut  up  behind  that  high  fence,  alone, 
alvay  alone.  And,  my  leetle  lady,  no  one  remembers  them,  I  don't 
believe,  for  it  is  ten  year  I've  been  right  in  this  Rue  des  Bons  Enfants, 
and  I  naiver  have  seen  no  one  entair  that  gate,  and  no  one  comes  out 
of  it  vairy  often.  Mam'selle  Diane  must  clean  her  banquette  in  the 
dark  of  the  night,  for  I  Ve  naiver  seen  her  do  it.  I  Ve  vatched,  but 


LADY    JANE.  87 

I  have  seen  her,  naiver.  Sometime,  when  it  is  vairy  early,  Mam'- 
selle  Diane  comes  to  my  leetle  shop  for  one  dime  of  orange  for 
Madam  d'Hautreve,  she  is  vairy  old  and  so  poor.  Ah,  but  she  is 
one  of  the  noblesse,  the  genuine  French  noblesse,  and  ManYselle 
Diane  is  so  polite  vhen  she  come  to  my  leetle  shop." 

"  If  I  should  go  there  early,  very  early,"  asked  Lady  Jane  with 
increasing  interest,  "and  wait  there  all  day,  don't  you  think  I  might 
see  her  come  out  ?  " 

"  You  might,  my  leetle  lady,  and  you  might  not.  About  once  in 
the  month,  Mam'selle  Diane  comes  out  all  in  the  black  dress  and  veil, 
and  one  little  black  basket  on  her  arm,  and  she  goes  up  toward  Rue 
Royal.  Vhen  she  goes  out  the  basket  it  is  heavy,  vhen  she  comes 
back  it  is  light." 

"  What  does  she  carry  in  it,  Mr.  Gex  ?  "  asked  Lady  Jane,  her  eyes 
large  and  her  voice  awe-stricken  over  the  mysterious  contents  of  the 

basket. 

"Ah,  I  know  not,  my  leetle  lady.  It  is  one  mystery,"  returned 
Gex  solemnly.  "  Mam'selle  Diane  is  so  proud  and  so  shut  up  that 
no  one  can't  find  out  anything.  Poor  lady,  and  vhen  does  she  do 
her  market,  and  vhat  do  they  eat,  for  all  I  evair  see  her  buy  is  one 
nickel  of  bread,  and  one  nickel  of  milk." 

"  But  she  's  got  flowers  and  birds,  and  she  plays  on  the  piano  and 
sings,"  said  Lady  Jane  reflectively.  "  Perhaps  she  is  n't  hungry  and 
does  n't  want  anything  to  eat." 

"That  may  be  so,  my  leetle  lady,"  replied  Gex  with  smiling 
approval,  "I  naiver  thought  of  it,  but  it  may  be  so  —  it  may  be  so. 
Perhaps  the  noblesse  don't  have  the  big  appetite,  and  don't  want  so 
much  to  eat  as  the  common  people." 

"  Oh,  I  nearly  forgot,  Mr.  Gex,  Pepsie  wants  a  nickel  of  cabbage," 
and  Lady  Jane  suddenly  returned  to  earth  and  earthly  things,  did  her 
errand,  took  her  lagniappe,  and  went  away. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

LADY   JANE    VISITS    THE    D'HAUTREVES 

ONE  morning  Lady  Jane  was  rewarded  for  her  patient  waiting ; 
as  usual,  she  was  lingering  on  the  sidewalk  near  the  green 
fence,  when  she  heard  the  key  turn  in  the  lock,  and  suddenly 
the  door  opened,  and  an  elderly  lady,  very  tall  and  thin,  with  a  mild, 
pale  face,  appeared  and  beckoned  her  to  approach. 

For  a  moment  Lady  Jane  felt  shy,  and  drew  back,  fearing  that 
she  had  been  a  little  rude  in  haunting  the  place  so  persistently ;  be 
sides,  to  her  knowledge,  she  had  never  before  stood  in  the  presence 
of  "genuine  French  nobility,"  and  the  pale,  solemn  looking  woman, 
who,  in  spite  of  her  rusty  gown,  had  an  air  of  distinction,  rather  awed 
her.  However,  her  good  breeding  soon  got  the  better  of  her  timid 
ity,  and  she  went  forward  with  a  charming  smile. 

"Would  you  like  to  come  in,  my  dear,  and  look  at  my  flowers?" 
said  the  lady,  opening  the  gate  a  little  wider  for  Lady  Jane  to  enter. 

"  Yes,  thank  you,"  and  Lady  Jane  smiled  and  flushed  with  pleas 
ure  when  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  beautiful  vista  beyond  the 
dark  figure.  "  May  I  bring  Tony  in,  too  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  I  want  to  see  him  very  much,  but  I  want  to  see  you 
more,"  and  she  laid  her  hand  caressingly  on  the  beautiful  head  of 
the  child.  "  I  Ve  been  watching  you  for  some  time." 

"  Have  you  ?  Why,  how  did  you  see  me  ?  "  and  Lady  Jane  dim 
pled  with  smiles. 

"  Oh,  through  a  little  chink  in  my  fence ;  I  see  more  than  any 
one  would  think,"  replied  the  lady  smiling. 


88 


LADY    JANE.  89 

"  And  you  saw  me  waiting  and  waiting ;  oh,  why  did  n't  you  ask 
me  in  before  ?  I  Ve  wanted  to  come  in  so  much,  and  did  you  know 
I  'd  been  here  singing  with  you  ?  " 

"  No,  I  did  n't  know  that." 

"  Are  you  Mam'selle  Diane  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  am  Mam'selle  Diane;  and  what  is  your  name?" 

"  I  'm  called  Lady  Jane." 

"Lady  Jane, — Lady  ?  Why,  do  you  know  that  you  have  a  title  of 
nobility  ?  " 

"  But  I  'm  not  one  of  the  nobility.  It 's  my  name,  just  Lady  Jane. 
Papa  always  called  me  Lady  Jane.  I  did  n't  know  what  nobility  was, 
and  Mr.  Gex  told  me  that  you  were  one.  Now  I  '11  never  forget 
what  it  is,  but  I  'm  not  one." 

"You  're  a  very  sweet  little  girl,  all  the  same,"  said  Mam'selle 
Diane,  a  smile  breaking  over  her  grave  face.  "  Come  in,  I  want  to 
show  you  and  your  bird  to  mama." 

Lady  Jane  followed  her  guide  across  a  small,  spotless  side  gal 
lery  into  a  tiny  room  of  immaculate  cleanliness,  where,  sitting  in  an 
easy  chair  near  a  high  bed,  was  an  old,  old  lady,  the  oldest  person 
Lady  Jane  had  ever  seen,  with  hair  as  white  as  snow,  combed  back 
from  a  delicate,  shrunken  face  and  covered  with  a  little  black  silk  cap. 

"  Mama,  this  is  the  little  girl  with  the  bird  of  whom  I  've  been 
telling  you,"  said  Mam'selle  Diane,  leading  her  forward.  "  And, 
Lady  Jane,  this  is  my  mother,  Madame  d'Hautreve." 

The  old  lady  shook  hands  with  the  child  and  patted  her  head 
caressingly ;  then  she  asked,  in  a  weak,  quavering  voice,  if  the  bird 
was  n't  too  heavy  for  the  little  girl  to  carry. 

"  Oh,  no,  Madame,"  replied  Lady  Jane,  brightly.  "  Tony 's  large, 
he  grows  very  fast,  but  he  is  n't  heavy,  he  's  all  feathers,  he  's  very 
light;  would  you  like  to  take  him?" 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  my  dear,  oh  no,"  said  the  old  lady,  drawing  back 


90  LADY    JANE. 

timidly.  "  I  should  n't  like  to  touch  it,  but  I  should  like  to  see  it 
walk.  I  suppose  it  's  a  crane,  is  n't  it  ?  " 

"  He  's  a  blue  heron,  and  he  's  not  a  common  bird,"  replied  Lady 
Jane,  repeating  her  little  formula,  readily  and  politely. 

"  I  see  that  it  's  different  from  a  crane,"  said  Mam'selle  Diane, 
looking  at  Tony  critically,  who,  now  that  his  mistress  had  put  him 
down,  stood  on  one  leg  very  much  humped  up,  and  making,  on  the 
whole,  rather  an  ungainly  figure. 

"  Tony  always  will  do  that  before  strangers,"  observed  Lady  Jane 
apologetically.  "  When  I  want  him  to  walk  about  and  show  his 
feathers,  he  just  draws  himself  up  and  stands  on  one  leg." 

"  However,  he  is  very  pretty  and  very  odd.  Don't  you  think  I 
might  succeed  in  copying  him?"  And  Mam'selle  Diane  turned  an 
anxious  glance  on  her  mother. 

"  I  don't  know,  my  dear,"  quavered  the  old  lady,  "  his  legs  are  so 
long  that  they  would  break  easily  if  they  were  made  of  sealing-wax." 

"  I  think  I  could  use  a  wire  with  the  sealing-wax,"  said  Mam' 
selle  Diane,  thoughtfully  regarding  Tony's  leg.  "  You  see  there 
would  be  only  one." 

"  I  know,  my  dear,  but  the  wool;  you  Ve  got  no  wool  the  color 
of  his  feathers." 

"  Madame  Jourdain  would  send  for  it." 

"  But,  Diane,  think  of  the  risk;  if  you  should  n't  succeed,  you  'd 
waste  the  wool,  and  you  do  the  ducks  so  well,  really,  my  dear,  I 
think  you  'd  better  be  satisfied  with  the  ducks  and  the  canaries." 

11  Mama,  it  would  be  something  new,  something  original.  I  'm 
tired  of  ducks  and  canaries." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  I  shan't  oppose  you,  if  you  think  you  can  suc 
ceed,  but  it  's  a  great  risk  to  start  out  with  an  entirely  new  model, 
and  you  can't  use  the  wool  for  the  ducks  if  you  should  fail  ;  you  must 
think  of  that,  my  dear,  whether  you  can  afford  to  lose  the  wool,  if 
you  fail." 


LADY   JANE.  93 

While  this  conversation  was  going  on  between  Mam'selle 
Diane  and  her  mother,  Lady  Jane's  bright  eyes  were  taking  in  the 
contents  of  the  little  room.  It  was  very  simply  furnished,  the  floor 
was  bare,  and  the  walls  were  destitute  of  adornment,  save  over  the 
small  fireplace,  where  hung  a  fine  portrait  of  a  very  handsome  man 
dressed  in  a  rich  court  dress  of  the  time  of  Louis  XIV.  This  ele 
gant  courtier  was  Mam'selle  Diane's  grandfather,  the  Count  d'Haut- 
reve,  and  under  this  really  fine  work  of  art,  on  the  small  mantelpiece, 
was  some  of  the  handicraft  of  his  impoverished  granddaughter,  which 
fascinated  Lady  Jane  to  such  a  degree  that  she  had  neither  eyes  nor 
ears  for  anything  else. 

The  center  of  the  small  shelf  was  ornamented  with  a  tree  made 
of  a  variety  of  shades  of  green  wool  over  a  wire  frame,  and  appar 
ently  hopping  about  among  the  foliage,  on  little  sealing-wax  legs, 
with  black  bead  eyes  and  sealing-wax  bills,  were  a  number  of  little 
wool  birds  of  every  color  under  the  sun,  while  at  each  end  of  the 
mantel  were  similar  little  trees,  one  loaded  with  soft  yellow  canaries, 
the  other  with  little  fluffy  white  things  of  a  species  to  puzzle  an 
ornithologist.  Lady  Jane  thought  they  were  adorable,  and  her 
fingers  almost  ached  to  caress  them. 

"  Oh,  how  pretty  they  are  !  "  she  sighed,  at  length,  quite  overcome 
with  admiration ;  "  how  soft  and  yellow  !  Why,  they  are  like  real 
live  birds,  and  they  're  ever  so  much  prettier  than  Tony,"  she  added, 
glancing  ruefully  at  her  homely  pet;  "but  then  they  can't  hop  and 
fly  and  come  when  you  call  them." 

Madame  d'Hautreve  and  Mam'selle  Diane  witnessed  her  delight 
with  much  satisfaction.  It  seemed  a  tardy,  but  genuine,  recognition 
of  genius. 

"  There,  you  see,  my  dear,  that  I  was  right,  I  Ve  always  said  it," 
quavered  the  old  lady.  "  I  Ve  always  said  that  your  birds  were 
wonderful,  and  the  child  sees  it ;  children  tell  the  truth,  they  are  sin 
cere  in  their  praise,  and  when  they  discover  merit,  they  acknow- 


94  LADY   JANE. 

ledge  it  simply  and  truthfully.  I  Ve  always  said  that  all  you  needed 
to  give  you  a  reputation  was  recognition, —  I  Ve  always  said  it,  if  you 
remember;  but  show  her  the  ducks,  my  dear,  show  her  the  ducks. 
I  think,  if  possible,  that  they  are  more  natural  than  the  others." 

Mam'selle  Diane's  sad,  grave  face  lighted  up  a  little  as  she  led 
the  child  to  a  table  near  the  side  window,  which  was  covered  with 
pieces  of  colored  flannel,  sticks  of  sealing-wax,  and  bunches  of  soft 
yellow  wool.  In  this  table  was  a  drawer  which  she  drew  out  care 
fully,  and  there  on  little  scalloped  flannel  mats  of  various  colors  sat  a 
number  of  small  yellow  downy  ducklings. 

"  Oh,  oh  ! "  exclaimed  Lady  Jane,  not  able  to  find  other  words  at 
the  moment  to  express  her  wonder  and  delight. 

"  Would  you  like  to  hold  one  ?  "  asked  Mam'selle  Diane,  taking 
one  out. 

Lady  Jane  held  out  her  pink  palm,  and  rapturously  smoothed 
down  its  little  woolly  back  with  her  soft  fingers.  "  Oh,  how  pretty, 
how  pretty ! "  she  repeated  in  a  half-suppressed  tone. 

"Yes,    I   think   they  are   rather  pretty,"  said   Mam'selle    Diane 
modestly,  "but  then  they  are  so  useful." 

"What  are  they  for?"  asked  Lady  Jane  in  surprise;  she  could 
not  think  they  were  made  for  any  other  purpose  than  for  ornament. 

"  They  are  pen-wipers,  my  dear.     You  see,  the  pen  is  wiped  with 
the  little  cloth  mat  they  are  sitting  on." 

Yes,  they  were  pen-wipers;  Mademoiselle  Diane  d'Hautreve. 
grand-daughter  of  the  Count  d'Hautreve,  made  little  woolen  duck 
lings  for  pen-wipers,  and  sold  them  quite  secretly  to  Madame  Jour- 
dain,  on  the  Rue  Royale,  in  order  to  have  bread  for  her  aged  mother 
and  herself. 

Lady  Jane  unknowingly  had  solved  the  financial  mystery  con 
nected  with  the  d'Hautreve  ladies,  and  at  the  same  time  she  had 
made  another  valuable  friend  for  herself. 


CHAPTER   XV 

LADY    JANE    FINDS    A    MUSIC-TEACHER 

ON  the  occasion  of  Lady  Jane's  first  visit  to  the  d'Hautreve 
ladies,  she  had   been  so  interested  in  Mam'selle    Diane's 
works  of  art  that  she  had  paid  no  attention  whatever  to 
the  piano  and  the  flowers. 

But  on  the  second  visit,  while  Tony  was  posing  as  a  model  (for 
suddenly  he  had  developed  great  perfection  in  that  capacity),  she 
critically  examined  the  ancient  instrument. 

Presently  she  asked  a  little  timidly,  "  Is  that  what  you  make 
music  on  when  you  sing,  Mam'selle  Diane  ?  " 

Mam'selle  Diane  nodded  an  affirmative.     She  was  very  busy 
modeling  Tony's  leg  in  sealing-wax. 
"  Is  it  a  piano  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  it  's  a  piano.     Did  you  never  see  one  before? " 
"  Oh  yes,  and  I  Ve  played  on  one.     Mama  used  to  let  me  play  on 
hers;  but  it  was  large,  very  large,  and  not  like  this." 

"  Where  was  that?"  asked  Mam'selle  Diane,  while  a  swift  glance 
passed  between  her  and  her  mother. 

"  Oh,  that  was  on  the  ranch,  before  we  came  away." 
"Then  you  lived  on  a  ranch.     Where  was  it,  my  dear?" 
"  I  don't  know,"  and  Lady  Jane  looked  puzzled.    "  It  was  just  the 
ranch.     It  was  in  the  country,  and  there  were  fields  and  fields,  and 
a  great  many  horses,  and  sheep,  and  lambs — dear  little  lambs!" 

"Then  the  lady  you  live  with  is  not  your  mama,"  said  Mam'selle 
Diane  casually,  while  she  twisted  the  sealing-wax  into  the  shape  of 
the  foot. 

95 


96  LADY    JANE. 

"  Oh  no,  she 's  my  Tante  Pauline.  My  mama  has  gone  away, 
but  Pepsie  says  she  's  sure  to  come  back  before  Christmas ;  and 
it  's  not  very  long  now  till  Christmas."  The  little  face  grew  radiant 
with  expectation. 

"And  you  like  music?"  said  Mam'selle  Diane,  with  a  sigh;  she 
saw  how  it  was,  and  she  pitied  the  motherless  darling  from  the 
bottom  of  her  tender  heart. 

.  "  Did  n't  you  ever  hear  me  sing  when  I  used  to  stand  close  to  the 
window?"  Lady  Jane  leaned  across  Mam'selle  Diane's  table,  and 
looked  at  her  with  a  winsome  smile.  "  I  sang  as  loud  as  I  could,  so 
you  'd  hear  me  ;  I  thought,  perhaps,  you  'd  let  me  in." 

"  Dear  little  thing!"  returned  Mam'selle  Diane,  caressingly.  Then 
she  turned  and  spoke  in  French  to  her  mother:  "You  know,  mama, 
I  wanted  to  ask  her  in  before,  but  you  thought  she  might  meddle  with 
my  wools  and  annoy  me ;  but  she  's  not  troublesome  at  all.  I  wish 
I  could  teach  her  music  when  I  have  time." 

Lady  Jane  glanced  from  one  to  the  other  gravely  and  anxiously. 
"  I  'm  learning  French,"  she  said  ;  "  Pepsie's  teaching  me,  and  when  I 
learn  it  you  can  always  talk  to  me  in  French.  I  know  some  words 
now." 

Mam'selle  Diane  smiled.  "  I  was  telling  mama  that  I  should  like 
to  teach  you  music.  Would  you  like  to  learn  ? " 

"  What,  to  play  on  the  piano  ?  "  and  the  child's  eyes  glistened  with 
delight. 

"  Yes,  to  play  and  sing,  both." 

"  I  can  sing  now,"  with  a  little,  shy,  wistful  smile. 

"Well  then,  sing  for  us  while  I  finish  Tony's  leg,  and  afterward  I 
will  sing  for  you." 

"  Shall  I  sing,  '  Sleep,  baby,  sleep '  ?  " 

"  Yes,  anything  you  like." 
Lady  Jane  lifted  her  little  face,  flushed  like  a  flower,  but  still 


LADY   JANE.  97 

serious  and  anxious,  and  broke  into  a  ripple  of  melody  so  clear,  so 
sweet,  and  so  delicately  modulated,  that  Mam'selle  Diane  clasped  her 
hands  in  ecstasy.  She  forgot  her  bunch  of  wool,  the  difficulty  of  Tony's 
breast-feathers,  the  impossible  sealing-wax  leg,  and  sat  listening  en 
chanted  ;  while  the  old  lady  closed  her  eyes  and  swayed  back  and 
forth,  keeping  time  with  the  dreamy  rhythm  of  the  lullaby. 

"  Why,  my  dear,  you  have  the  voice  of  an  angel ! "  exclaimed 
Mam'selle  Diane,  when  the  child  finished.  "  I  must  teach  you.  You 
must  be  taught.  Mama,  she  must  be  taught.  It  would  be  wicked  to 
allow  such  a  voice  to  go  uncultivated  !  " 

"And  what  can  cultivation  do  that  nature  hasn't  done?"  asked 
the  old  lady  querulously.  "  Sometimes,  I  think  too  much  culti 
vation  ruins  a  voice.  Think  of  yours,  Diane ;  think  of  what  it  was 
before  all  that  drilling  and  training ;  think  of  what  it  was  that 
night  you  sang  at  Madame  La  Baronne's,  when  your  cousin  from 
France,  the  Marquis  d'Hautreve,  said  he  had  never  listened  to  such 
a  voice ! " 

"  It  was  the  youth  in  it,  mama,  the  youth ;  I  was  only  sixteen," 
and  Mam'selle  Diane  sighed  over  the  memory  of  those  days. 

"  It  was  before  all  the  freshness  was  cultivated  out  of  it.  You 
never  sang  so  well  afterward." 

"  I  never  was  as  young,  mama,  and  I  never  had  such  an  audience 
again.  You  know  I  went  back  to  the  convent;  and  when  I  came 
out  things  had  changed,  and  I  was  older,  and — I  had  changed.  I 
think  the  change  was  in  me." 

Here  a  tear  stole  from  the  faded  eyes  that  had  looked  on  such 
triumphs. 

"  It  is  true,  my  dear,  you  never  had  such  an  opportunity  again. 
Your  cousin  went  back  to  France, — and — and — there  were  no 
more  fetes  after  those  days,  and  there  was  no  one  left  to  recognize 
your  talent.  Perhaps  it  was  as  much  the  lack  of  recognition  as 


9$  LADY   JANE. 

anything  else.  Yes,  I  say,  as  I  always  have  said,  that  it  's  recogni 
tion  you  need  to  make  you  famous.  It  's  the  same  with  your  birds 
as  with  your  singing.  It  's  recognition  you  need." 

"  And  perhaps  it  's  wealth  too,  mama,"  said  Mam'selle  Diane 
gently.  "  One  is  forgotten  when  one  is  poor.  Why,  we  have  been 
as  good  as  dead  and  buried  these  twenty  years.  I  believe  there  's 
no  one  left  who  remembers  us." 

"  No,  no,  my  child ;  it  's  not  that,"  cried  the  old  lady  sharply. 
"We  are  always  d'Hautreves.  It  was  our  own  choice  to  give  up 
society;  and  we  live  so  far  away,  it  is  inconvenient, — so  few  of  our 
old  friends  keep  carriages  now ;  and  besides,  we  have  no  day  to 
receive.  It  was  a  mistake  giving  up  our  reception-day ;  since  then 
people  have  n't  visited  us." 

"  I  was  thinking,  mama,"  said  Mam'selle  Diane  timidly,  "that  if 
I  did  as  well  with  my  ducks  next  year  as  I  have  this,  we  might  have 
a  '  day '  again.  We  might  send  cards,  and  let  our  old  friends  know 
that  we  are  still  alive." 

"  We  might,  we  might,"  said  the  old  lady,  brightening  visibly. 
"We  are  always  d'Hautreves";  then  her  face  fell  suddenly.  "But, 
Diane,  my  dear,  we  have  n't  either  of  us  a  silk  dress,  and  it  would 
never  do  for  us  to  receive  in  anything  but  silk." 

"  That  's  true,  mama.  I  never  thought  of  that.  We  may  not  be 
able  to  have  a  'day/  after  all,"  and  Mam'selle  Diane  bent  her  head 
dejectedly  over  her  sealing-wax  and  wool. 

While  these  reminiscences  were  exchanged  by  the  mother  and 
daughter,  Lady  Jane,  whose  singing  had  called  them  forth,  slipped 
out  into  the  small  garden,  where,  amid  a  profusion  of  bloom  and 
fragrance,  she  was  now  listening  to  the  warbling  of  a  canary  whose, 
cage  hung  among  the  branches  of  a  Marechal  Niel  rose.  It  was 
the  bird  whose  melody  had  enraptured  her,  while  she  was  yet 
without  the  paradise,  and  it  was  the  effigy  of  that  same  bird  that 


LADY    JANE.  99 

she  had  seen  on  Mam'selle  Diane's  green  woolen  trees.  He  was  a 
bright,  jolly  little  fellow,  and  he  sang  as  if  he  were  wound  up  and 
never  would  run  down. 

Lady  Jane  listened  to  him  delightedly  while  she  inspected  the 
beds  of  flowers.  It  was  a  little  place,  but  contained  a  great  variety 
of  plants,  and  each  was  carefully  trained  and  trimmed ;  and  under 
all  the  seedlings  were  laid  little  sheets  of  white  paper  on  which 
some  seeds  had  already  fallen. 

Lady  Jane  eyed  the  papers  curiously.  She  did  not  know  that 
these  tiny  black  seeds  added  yearly  a  few  dollars  to  the  d'Haut- 
reve  revenues,  and,  at  the  same  time,  furnished  the  thrifty  gardener 
with  all  she  needed  for  her  own  use.  But  whose  hands  pruned  and 
trained,  dug  and  watered?  Were  they  the  hands  of  the  myth  of 
a  servant  who  came  so  early  before  madame  was  out  of  her  bed  — 
for  the  old  aristocrat  loved  to  sleep  late — to  clean  the  gallery  and 
banquette  and  do  other  odd  jobs  unbecoming  a  d'Hautreve  ? 

Yes,  the  very  same;  and  Mam'selle  Diane  was  not  an  early 
riser  because  of  sleeplessness,  nor  was  it  age  that  made  her  slender 
hands  so  hard  and  brown. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

PEPSIE   IS   JEALOUS 

WHEN  Mam'selle  Diane  joined  Lady  Jane  in  the  garden,  she 
had  gained  her  mother's  consent  to  give  the  child  a  music 
lesson  once  a  week.  The  old  lady  had  been  querulous  and 
difficult ;  she  had  discussed  and  objected,  but  finally  Mam'selle  Diane 
had  overcome  her  prejudices. 

"  You  don't  know  what  kind  of  people  her  relatives  are,"  the  old 
lady  said,  complainingly,  "and  if  we  once  open  our  doors  to  the  child 
the  aunt  may  try  to  crowd  in.  We  don't  want  to  make  any  new  ac 
quaintances.  There  's  one  satisfaction  we  still  have,  that,  although 
we  are  poor,  very  poor,  we  are  always  d'Hautreves,  and  we  always 
have  been  exclusive,  and  I  hope  we  always  shall  be.  As  soon  as  we 
allow  those  people  to  break  down  the  barrier  between  us,  they  will 
rush  in  on  us,  and,  in  a  little  while,  they  will  forget  who  we  are." 

"  Never  fear,  mama ;  if  the  aunt  is  as  well  bred  as  the  child,  she 
will  not  annoy  us.  If  we  wish  to  know  her,  we  shall  probably  have 
to  make  the  first  advances,  for,  judging  by  the  child,  they  are  not 
common  people.  I  have  never  seen  so  gentle  and  polite  a  little  girl. 
I  'm  sure  she  '11  be  no  trouble." 

"I  don't  know  about  that.  Children  are  natural  gossips,  and 
she  is  very  intelligent  for  her  age.  She  will  notice  everything,  and 
the  secret  of  your  birds  will  get  out." 

"  Well,  mama  dear,  if  you  feel  that  she  will  be  an  intrusion  upon 
our  privacy,  I  won't  insist ;  but  I  should  so  like  to  have  her,  just  for 


LADY   JANE.  IOI 

two  hours,  say,  once  a  week.     It  would  give  me  a  new  interest;  it 
would  renew  my  youth  to  hear  her  angelic  little  voice  sometimes/' 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  you  must  have  your  way,  Diane,  as  you  always 
do.  Young  people  nowadays  have  no  respect  for  the  prejudices 
of  age.  We  must  yield  all  our  traditions  and  habits  to  their  new- 
fashioned  ideas,  or  else  we  are  severe  and  tyrannical." 

"  Oh,  mama,  dear  mama,  I  'm  sure  you  're  a  little,  just  a  little, 
unkind  now,"  said  Mam'selle  Diane,  soothingly.  "  I  '11  give  it  up  at 
once  if  you  really  wish  it ;  but  I  don't  think  you  do.  I  'm  sure  the 
child  will  interest  you ;  beside,  I  'm  getting  on  so  well  with  the  bird 
— you  would  n't  have  me  give  up  my  model,  would  you  ? " 

"Certainly  not,  my  dear.  If  you  need  her,  let  her  come.  At 
least  you  can  try  for  a  while,  and  if  you  find  her  troublesome,  and 
the  lessons  a  task,  you  can  stop  them  when  you  like." 

When  this  not  very  gracious  consent  was  obtained,  Mam'selle 
Diane  hastened  to  tell  Lady  Jane  that,  if  her  aunt  approved,  she 
could  come  to  her  every  Saturday,  from  one  to  three,  when  she 
would  teach  her  the  piano,  as  well  as  singing;  and  that  after  the 
lesson,  if  she  liked  to  remain  awhile  in  the  garden  with  the  birds  and 
flowers,  she  was  at  liberty  to  do  so. 

Lady  Jane  fairly  flew  to  tell  Pepsie  the  good  news ;  but,  much 
to  her  surprise,  her  merry  and  practical  friend  burst  into  tears  and 
hid  her  face  on  the  table  among  the  pecan  shells. 

"  Why,  Pepsie  —  dear,  dear  Pepsie,  what  ails  you  ? "  cried  Lady 
Jane,  in  an  agony  of  terror,  "  tell  me  what  ails  you  ?  "  and,  dropping 
Tony,  she  laid  her  little  face  among  the  shells  and  cried  too. 

"  I  'm — I  'm — jealous,"  said  Pepsie,  looking  up  after  a  while, 
and  rubbing  her  eyes  furiously.  "I  'm  a  fool,  I  know,  but  I  can't 
help  it;  I  don't  want  her  to  have  you.  I  don't  want  you  to  go  there. 
Those  fine,  proud  people  will  teach  you  to  look  down  on  us. 
We  're  poor,  my  mother  sells  pralines,  and  the  people  that  live 


102  LADY    JANE. 

behind  that  green  fence  are  too  proud  and  fine  to  notice  any  one  in 
this  street.  They  Ve  lived  here  ever  since  I  was  born,  and  no 
one  's  seen  them,  because  they  Ve  kept  to  themselves  always  ;  and 
now,  when  I  Ve  just  got  you  to  love,  they  want  to  take  you  away, 
they  want  to  teach  you  to — despise — us!"  and  Pepsie  stumbled  over 
the  unusual  word  in  her  passionate  vehemence,  while  she  still  cried 
and  rubbed  angrily. 

"  But  don't  cry,  Pepsie,"  entreated  Lady  Jane.  "  I  don't  love 
Mam'selle  Diane  as  well  as  I  love  you.  It 's  the  music,  the  singing. 
Oh,  Pepsie,  dear,  dear  Pepsie,  let  me  learn  music,  and  I  '11  be  good 
and  love  you  dearly  !  " 

«  No, — no,  you  won't,  you  won't  care  any  more  for  me,"  insisted 
Pepsie,  the  little  demon  of  jealousy  raging  to  such  a  degree  that  she 
was  quite  ready  to  be  unjust,  as  well  as  unreasonable. 

"  Are  you  cross  at  me,  Pepsie  ? "  and  Lady  Jane  crept  almost 
across  the  table  to  cling  tearfully  to  her  friend's  neck.  "  Don't  be 
cross,  and  I  won't  go  to  Mam'selle  Diane.  I  won't  learn  music,  and, 
Pepsie  dear,  I  '11 — I  '11 — give  you  Tony  !" 

This  was  the  extreme  of  renunciation,  and  it  touched  the  gener 
ous  heart  of  the  girl  to  the  very  quick.  "  You  dear  little  angel !  " 
she  cried  with  a  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling,  clasping  and  kissing  the 
child  passionately.  "You  're  as  sweet  and  good  as  you  can  be,  and 
I  'm  wicked  and  selfish  ! "  Yes,  wicked  and  selfish.  It  's  for  your 
good,  and  I  'm  trying  to  keep  you  away.  You  ought  to  hate  me  for 
being  so  mean." 

At  this  moment  Tite  Souris  entered,  and,  seeing  the  traces  of 
tears  on  her  mistress's  cheeks,  broke  out  in  stern,  reproachful  tones. 

"  Miss  Lady,  what  's  you  be'n  a-doin'  to  my  Miss  Peps'?  You 
done  made  her  cry.  I  see  how  she  's  be'n  a-gwine  on.  You  jes* 
look  out,  or  her  ma  '11  git  a'ter  you,  ef  yer  makes  dat  po'  crooked  gal 
cry  dat  a-way." 


YES,  LADY   DEAR,   I  WANT  YOU   TO   LEARN   TO   PLAY  ON   THE   PIANO,   AND   I  >LL  TELL   YOU 
WHAT   I  'VE    BEEN    THINKING   OF,'    SAID    PEPSIE." 


LADY   JANE.  105 

"  Hush,  Tite,"  cried  Pepsie,  "  you  need  n't  blame  Miss  Lady.  It 
was  my  fault.  I  was  wicked  and  selfish,  I  did  n't  want  her  to  go  to 
Mam'selle  Diane.  I  was  jealous,  that 's  all." 

"  Pepsie  cried  because  she  thought  I  would  n't  love  her,"  put  in 
Lady  Jane,  in  an  explanatory  tone,  quite  ignoring  Tite's  burst  of 
loyalty.  "  Mam'selle  Diane  is  nobility  —  French  nobility,  and 
Pepsie  thought  I  'd  be  proud,  and  love  Mam'selle  best,— did  n't 
you,  Pepsie  ?  " 

"  Now,  jes'  hear  that  chile,"  cried  Tite,  scornfully.  "  If  dey  is 
nobil'ty,  dey  is  po'  white  trash.  Shore  's  I  live,  dat  tall  lean  one  wat 
look  lak  a  graveyard  rigger,  she  git  outen  her  bed  'fore  sun-up,  an' 
brick  her  banquette  her  own  se'f.  I  done  seed  her,  one  mornin' ;  she 
war  a-scrubbin'  lak  mad.  An'  bress  yer,  honey,  she  done  had  a  veil 
on  ;  so  no  one  won't  know  her.  Shore  's  I  live,  she  done  brick  her 
banquette  wid  a  veil  on." 

"  If  she  cleans  the  banquette  herself,  they  must  be  very  poor," 
was  Pepsie's  logical  conclusion.  "  Perhaps,  after  all,  they  're  not  so 
proud;  only  they  don't  want  people  to  know  how  poor  they  are. 
And,  Tite,  don't  you  tell  that  on  the  poor  lady.  You  know  it  's  just 
one  of  your  stories  about  her  having  a  veil  on.  It  may  have  been 
some  one  else.  You  could  n't  tell  who  it  was,  if  she  had  a  veil  on, 
as  you  say." 

This  argument  did  not  in  the  least  shake  Tite  Souris  in  her 
conviction  that  she  had  seen  the  grand-daughter  of  the  Count  d'Haut- 
reve  bricking  her  banquette  before  "  sun-up  "  with  a  veil  over  her  face. 
However,  Lady  Jane  and  Pepsie  were  reconciled,  and  the  little 
cripple,  to  show  her  confidence  in  the  child's  affection,  was  now  as 
anxious  to  have  her  go  to  Mam'selle  Diane  and  learn  music,  as  she 
was  averse  to  it  before. 

'  Yes,  Lady  dear,  I  want  you  to  learn  to  play  on  the  piano,  and 
I  '11  tell  you  what  I  Ve  been  thinking  of,"  said  Pepsie  as  they  leaned 


106  LADY    JANE. 

confidentially  toward  each  other  across  the  table,  "mama  has  some 
money  in  the  bank.  She  's  been  saving  it  to  get  something  for  me. 
You  know,  she  does  everything  I  want  her  to  do.  I  wanted  to  learn 
to  read,  and  she  had  a  teacher  come  to  me  every  day  until  I  could 
read  and  write  very  well,  so  I  'm  sure  she  '11  do  this,  if  I  want  her 
to ;  and  this  is  what  it  is.  She  must  buy  a  piano  to  put  right  there 
in  that  space  next  the  bed." 

"For  me  to  play  on?  Oh,  Pepsie,  how  lovely!"  and  Lady  Jane 
clasped  her  hands  with  delight. 

"And  you  can  practise  all  the  time,"  continued  the  practical  Pep 
sie.  "You  know,  if  you  ever  learn  music  well  you  must  practise  a 
great  deal.  Cousin  Marie  practised  three  hours  a  day  in  the  con 
vent.  And  then,  when  you  are  grown  up,  you  '11  sing  in  the  cathe 
dral,  and  earn  a  great  deal  of  money ;  and  you  can  buy  a  beautiful 
white  satin  dress,  all  trimmed  down  the  front  with  lace,  and  they 
will  ask  you  to  sing  in  the  French  Opera,  on  Rue  Bourbon ;  and 
every  one  will  bring  you  flowers,  and  rings  and  bracelets,  and  jew 
els,  and  you  '11  be  just  like  a  queen." 

"  And  sit  on  a  throne,  and  wear  a  crown  ?  "  gasped  Lady  Jane, 
her  eyes  wide  and  sparkling,  and  her  cheeks  flushed  over  the  glories 
of  Pepsie's  riotous  imagination. 

"  Yes,"  said  Pepsie.  Now  that  she  had  started  she  meant  to  give 
full  rein  to  her  fancy.  "And  every  one  will  be  ready  to  worship 
you,  and  you  '11  ride  out  in  a  blue  carriage,  with  eight  white  horses." 

"Oh,  oh!"  interrupted  Lady  Jane  rapturously  ;  "and  you  '11  go  with 
me,  and  it  will  be  just  as  good  as  riding  in  Tante  Modeste's  milk 

cart." 

"  Better,  much  better,"  agreed  Pepsie,  quite  willing,  in  her  pres 
ent  mood,  to  admit  that  there  was  something  better;  "and  then  you  '11 
have  a  big,  big  house  in  the  country,  with  grass,  and  trees,  and 
flowers,  and  a  fountain  that  will  tinkle,  tinkle  all  the  time." 


LADY   JANE.  IO/ 


"And  you  and  Mama  Madelon  will  live  with  me  always." 
a  sudden  shadow  passed  over  the  bright  little  face,  and  the  wide 
eyes  grew  very  wistful,  "and,  Pepsie,  perhaps  God  will  let  papa  and 
mama  come  and  live  with  me  again." 

"  Perhaps  so,  dear,"  returned  Pepsie  with  quick  sympathy.    "When 
I  say  my  prayers,  I  '11  ask." 

Presently  Lady  Jane  said  softly,  with  an  anxious  glance  at  Pep 
sie,  "  You  know,  you  told  me  that  mama  might  come  back  before 
Christmas.  It's  nearly  Christmas,  is  n't  it?  Oh,  I  wish  I  could 
kr  >w  if  she  was  coming  back  !  Can't  you  ask  your  cards,  Pepsie  ? 
Pe  haps  they  '11  tell  if  she  '11  come." 

"I'll  try,"  replied  Pepsie,   "yes,  I  '11   try;  but  sometimes  they 
won't  tell." 

When  Lady  Jane  asked  permission  of  Madame  Jozain  to  study 
music  with  Mam'selle  Diane,  Tante  Pauline  consented  readily.  In 
fact,  she  was  overjoyed.  It  was  no  common  honor  to  have  one's 
niece  instructed  by  a  d'Hautreve,  and  it  was  another  feather  in  her 
much  beplumed  cap.  By  and  by  people  would  think  more  of  her 
and  treat  her  with  greater  consideration.  When  she  was  once  inti 
mate  with  the  d'Hautreve  ladies,  the  neighbors  would  n't  dare  turn 
the  cold  shoulder  to  her  ;  for  through  their  interest  in  the  child  she 
expected  to  gain  a  foothold  for  herself;  but  she  had  yet  to  learn  how 
very  exclusive  a  d'Hautreve  could  be,  under  certain  circumstances. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

LADY  JANE'S  DANCING-MASTER 

AONG  all  Lady  Jane's  friends  there  was  no  one  who  congratulated 
her  on  her  good  fortune  with  half  the  enthusiasm  and  warmth 
displayed  by  little  Gex. 

"  Veil,  veil,  my  dear  leetle  lady,"  he  said,  rubbing  his  small 
hands  delightedly.  "  Vhy,  you  are  in  luck,  and  no  mistake !  To 
have  such  a  teacher  for  the  music  as  Mam'selle  Diane  d'Hautreve  is 
as  good  as  a  fortune  to  you.  She  '11  give  you  the  true  style,— the 
style  of  the  French  nobility,  the  only  style  vhat  is  good.  I  know 
just  vhat  that  is.  Peoples  think  old  Gex  knows  nothing ;  but  they  re 
mistaken,  leetle  lady ;  they  're  mistaken.  They  don't  know  vhat  I 
vas  once.  There  is  n't  nothing  in  music  that  Gex  has  n't  heard. 
I  Ve  seen  everything  fine,  and  I  Ve  heard  everything  fine,  \*en  I 
used  to  be  alvays  at  the  French  opera." 

"  Oh,  were  you  in  the  French  opera  ? "  interrupted  Lady  Jane, 
with  sparkling  eyes ;  "  that  's  where  Pepsie  says  I  shall  sing,  and 
I  'm  going  to  have  flowers  and — and  a  throne,  and  —  oh,  I  don't 
remember;  but  everything,  everything!"  she  added  impressively, 
summing  it  all  up  in  one  blissful  whole. 

11  Veil,  I  should  n't  vonder,  I  should  n't  vonder,"  said  Gex,  look 
ing  at  her  proudly,  with  his  head  on  one  side,  much  like  an  antiquated 
crow,  "  for  you  Ve  got  one  voice  already  vhat  vould  make  soft  the 
heart  of  one  stone." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Gex,  where  did  you  hear  me  sing?"  and  Lady  Jane 
looked  at  him  with  grave  surprise.  "  I  never  sang  for  any  one  but 
Pepsie,  and  Mam'selle  Diane,  and  you  were  n't  there." 


108 


J^AJLJV     /ANH.  IO9 

"  But  I  've  heard  you  sing;  I  Ve  heard  you,  my  leetle  lady," 
insisted  the  old  man,  with  twinkling  eyes.  "  It  vas  one  morning 
vhen  you  vas  a-singing  vith  Mam'selle  Diane,  outside  on  the  ban 
quette.  I  stepped  out,  and  there  I  heard  you  sing  like  one  leetle 
bird ;  but  you  did  n't  know  I  vas  a-listening." 

"  No,  I  did  n't  know  it,"  said  Lady  Jane,  smiling  brightly  again. 
"  I  'm  glad  you  heard  me,  and  some  day  I  '11  sing,  '  Sleep,  baby, 
sleep,'  for  you  if  you  'd  like  to  hear  it." 

Mr.  Gex  assured  her  that  he  would,  and  added  that  he  adored 
the  music.  "  I  have  n't  heard  the  fine  music  for  many  years,"  he 
remarked,  with  a  little  sigh,  "and  I  used  to  be  just  crazed  for  it; 
but  I  vas  different  then,  leetle  lady,  I  vas  different ;  you  vould  n't 
think  it,  but  I  vas  different." 

"  You  did  n't  wear  a  handkerchief  over  your  ears  then,  did  you, 
Mr.  Gex  ? " 

"  No,  no,  my  leetle  lady ;  it  vas  the  ear-ache  vat  made  me  tie  up 
my  ear." 

"  Did  you  wear  an  apron,  and  did  you  sew?"  continued  Lady 
Jane,  very  curious  to  know  in  what  ways  he  was  different. 

"Year  an  apron!"  exclaimed  Gex,  holding  up  his  hands.  "Vhy, 
bless  your  leetle  heart,  I  dressed  like  one  gentleman.  I  vore  the 
black  clothes,  fine  and  glossy.  I  vas  one  neat  leetle  man.  My  hair 
vas  black  and  curly  and,  you  von't  believe  it,  I  'm  afraid  you  von't 
believe  it,  but  I  vore  the  silk  hose,  and  leetle  fine  shoes  tied  vith 
one  ribbon,  and  one  gold  chain  across  my  vaistcoat,  and  one  ring 
on  that  finger,"  and  Gex  touched  one  of  his  hard  and  shrunken  digits 
by  way  of  emphasis 

"Did  you,  Mr.  Gex, — oh,  did  you?"  and  Lady  Jane's  eyes 
glistened,  and  her  little  face  was  one  smile  of  delight.  "Oh, 
how  nice  you  must  have  looked  !  But  you  did  n't  have  a  fruit- 
stall  then?" 


HO  LADY    JANE. 

"  No,  indeed ;  no,  indeed ;  I  vas  in  one  fine  business.  I  vas  fash 
ionable  then  ;  I  vas  one  fine  leetle  gentleman." 

"  Mr.  Gex,  what  did  you  do  ? "  cried  Lady  Jane,  in  a  little,  shrill, 
impetuous  voice,  for  her  curiosity  had  reached  the  climax.  "  I  want 
to  know  what  you  did,  when  you  curled  your  hair  and  wore  a  gold 
chain." 

"  I  vas  one  professeur,  leetle  lady.     I  vas  one  professeur." 

"  One  professeur !  Oh,  what  is  one  professeur?  "  cried  Lady  Jane 
impatiently. 

"  He  is  one  gentleman  vhat  does  teach." 

"Then  you  taught  music.  Oh,  I  Ve  guessed  it, —  you  taught 
music,"  and  Lady  Jane  looked  at  him  admiringly.  "  Now  I  know 
why  you  like  it  so  much  ! " 

"  No,  no,  leetle  lady.  It  vas  not  the  music.  It  vas  the  sister  to 
the  music ;  it  vas  the  dance.  I  vas  professeur  of  the  dance.  Think 
of  that,  of  the  dance.  So  nimble,  so  quick  ;  see,  like  this,"  and  little 
Gex,  carried  away  by  the  memory  of  his  former  triumphs,  took  hold 
of  the  sides  of  his  apron  and  made  two  or  three  quaint,  fantastic  steps, 
ending  them  with  a  little  pirouette  and  a  low  bow  which  enchanted 
Lady  Jane. 

"  Oh,  how  funny,  how  funny!  Please  do  it  again — won't  you, 
Mr.  Gex?  Oh,  do,  do/" 

Gex  smiled  indulgently,  but  shook  his  head.  "  No,  no,  leetle 
lady.  Once  is  enough,  just  to  show  you  how  nimble  and  quick 
one  professeur  of  the  dance  can  be;  but  then  I  vas  young  and 
supple,  and  full  of  life.  I  vas  running  over  vith  life ;  I  vas  one 
fine  leetle  gentleman,  so  springy  and  light,  and  I  vas  all  the  fashion. 
Vould  you  believe  it,  leetle  lady?  I  had  one  fine  grand  house  on 
Rue  Royale,  and  all  the  rich  peoples,  and  all  the  noblesse,  and  all 
the  leetle  gentlemen  and  the  small  leetle  ladies  like  you  came  to 
the  'Professeur  Gex'  to  learn  the  dance." 


LADY   JANE.  Ill 

"  But  why,  why,  Mr.  Gex,  did  you  leave  the  Rue  Royale  ?  "  asked 
Lady  Jane,  greatly  puzzled  at  his  changed  condition,  and  anxious  to 
know  by  what  strange  freak  of  destiny  he  had  been  brought  to  sell 
fruit  and  vegetables  in  Good  Children  Street,  to  wear  an  apron,  and 
to  mend  his  own  stockings. 

"  Ah,  veil,  my  leetle  lady,  it  vas  many  things  vhat  brought  me  to 
here,"  he  replied,  with  a  sigh  of  resignation.  "  You  see  I  did  not  stay 
the  fashion.  I  got  old,  and  the  rheumatism  made  me  slow  and  stiff, 
and  I  vas  no  more  such  a  fine,  light  leetle  gentleman.  I  could  not 
jump  and  turn  so  nimble  and  quick,  and  a  new  professeur  came 
from  Paris,  and'  to  him  vent  all  my  pupils.  I  had  no  money,  because 
I  vas  vairy  fond  of  good  living  and  I  lived  high  like  one  gentleman ; 
and  so  ven  I  vas  old  I  vas  poor,  and  there  vas  nothing  but  to  sell  the 
fruit  and  vegetables  in  Good  Children  Street." 

"  Oh,  dear,  dear,  what  a  pity !  "  sighed  Lady  Jane  regretfully. 
To  think  that  the  mighty  had  fallen  so  low  touched  her  loyal  little 
heart,  and  brought  the  tears  of  sympathy  to  her  blue  eyes. 

"  Naiver  mind,  naiver  mind.  You  see  I  vas  old,  and  I  could  not 
teach  the  dance  alvay ;  but  attendee,  my  leetle  lady,  listen  to  vhat 
I  say,"  and  he  clasped  his  hands  persuasively,  and  turned  his  head 
on  one  side,  his  little  twinkling  eyes  full  of  entreaty.  "  Vould  you, 
now,  vould  you  like  to  learn  the  dance  ?  I  'm  old,  and  I  'm  no  more 
so  nimble  ?.nd  light,  but  I  know  the  steps,  all  the  fine  steps,  and 
my  leetle  lady  must  learn  the  dance  some  time.  Von't  you  let  me 
teach  you  how  to  take  the  fine  leetle  steps  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Gex,  will  you?"  cried  Lady  Jane,  jumping  down  from 
her  chair,  with  a  flushed,  eager  face,  and  standing  in  front  of  the 
little  dancing-master.  "  Do,  do  !  —  I  'm  all  ready.  Teach  them  to 
me  now !  " 

"  Veil,  that  is  all  right,  stand  as  you  are,  and  I  vill  begin  just 
now,"  said  Gex,  beaming  with  pleasure,  while  he  hurriedly  rolled 


112  LADY    JANE. 

his  apron  up  under  his  armpits,  and  pushed  his  spectacles  well  on 
the  top  of  his  bald  head.  "  Now,  now,  leetle  lady,  turn  out  your 
toes,  take  hold  of  your  skirt,  .just  so.  Right  foot,  left  foot,  just  so. 
Vatch  me.  Right  foot,  left  foot.  One,  two,  three.  Right  foot,  one, 
two ;  left  foot,  one,  two,  three ;  half  around,  one,  two,  three ;  just  so, 
vatch  me.  Back  again,  half  around,  one,  two,  one,  two — oh,  good, 
good,  vairy  good  !  My  leetle  lady,  you  vill  learn  the  dance  so 
veil !  " 

It  was  a  delicious  picture  that  they  made  in  the  dingy  little 
shop,  surrounded  by  fruit  and  vegetables.  Lady  Jane,  with  her  yel 
low  flying  hair,  her  radiant  rosy  face,  her  gracious  head  coquettishly 
set  on  one  side,  her  sparkling  blue  eyes  fixed  on  Gex,  her  dainty 
little  fingers  holding  out  her  short  skirt,  her  slender,  graceful  legs 
and  tiny  feet  advancing  and  retreating  in  shy  mincing  steps,  turning 
and  whirling  with  a  graceful  swaying  motion  first  on  one  side,  then 
the  other,  right  in  front  of  Gex,  who,  with  a  face  of  preternatural 
gravity,  held  out  his  loose  trousers'  legs,  and  turned  his  small  brogans 
to  the  correct  angle,  while  he  went  through  all  the  intricate  steps  of 
a  first  dancing-lesson  in  the  quaint,  old-fashioned  style  of  fifty  years 
ago,  every  movement  being  closely  followed  by  the  child  with  a  grace 
and  spirit  really  charming. 

When  the  lesson  was  over,  and  Lady  Jane  ran  to  tell  her  friend 
of  this  latest  stroke  of  good  fortune,  Pepsie  showed  all  her  white  teeth 
in  a  broad  smile  of  satisfaction. 

"  Well,  Lady,"  she  said,  "  you  are  a  lucky  child.    You  Ve  not  only 
found  a  music-teacher,  but  you  Ve  found  a  dancing-master." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

LADY  JANE'S  CHRISTMAS  PRESENTS 

CHRISTMAS  came  and  went ;  and  whatever  hopes,  desires,  or  re 
grets  filled  the  loving  little  heart  of  Lady  Jane,  the  child 
kept  them  to  herself,  and  was  outwardly  as  bright  and  cheer 
ful   as   on   other  days,  although  Pepsie,   who  watched  her  closely, 
thought  that  she  detected  a  wistfulness  in  her  eyes,  and,  at  times,  a 
sad  note  in  the  music  of  her  happy  voice.      If  the  affection  that  finds 
expression  in  numerous  Christmas  gifts  can  make  a  child  contented, 
Lady  Jane  had  certainly  no  reason  to  complain. 

The  first  thing  on  which  her  eyes  fell  when  she  awoke  was  her 
stockings,  the  slender  legs  very  much  swollen  and  bulged,  hanging 
in  Madame's  chimney-corner,  waiting  to  be  relieved  of  their  undue 
expansion.  Even  Raste  —  the  extravagant  and  impecunious  Raste 
—  had  remembered  her ;  for  a  very  dressy  doll,  with  a  French-gilt 
bangle  encircling  its  waist  (the  bangle  being  intended  not  for  the 
doll,  but  for  Lady  Jane),  bore  a  card  on  which  was  inscribed  in  bold 
characters,  "  M.  Adraste  Jozain,"  and  underneath  the  name,  "A 
mery  Crismus."  Adraste  was  very  proud  of  his  English,  and  as 
Lady  Jane  was  more  grateful  than  critical  it  passed  muster.  Then 
there  was  a  basket  of  fruit  from  Gex,  and  beside  the  basket  nestled 
a  little  yellow  duckling  which  came  from  Mam'selle  Diane,  as  Lady 
Jane  knew  without  looking  at  the  tiny  old-fashioned  card  attached 
to  it.  And,  after  she  had  been  made  happy  at  home,  she  still  had 
another  pleasure  in  store,  for  Pepsie,  wishing  to  witness  the  pleasure 
of  her  little  friend,  had  the  Paichoux  presents,  with  her  own  and 
Madelon's,  beautifully  arranged  on  her  table,  and  carefully  covered, 


114  LADY   JANE. 

until  the  important  moment  of  unveiling.  Every  Paichoux  had 
remembered  Lady  Jane,  and  a  finer  array  of  picture  books,  dolls, 
and  toys  was  never  spread  before  a  happier  child  ;  but  the  presents 
which  pleased  her  most  were  a  small  music  box  from  Madelon,  a 
tiny  silver  thimble  from  Pepsie,  and  Mam'selle  Diane's  little  duckling. 
These  she  kept  always  among  her  treasures. 

"The  day /like  best,"  said  Pepsie,  after  Lady  Jane  had  exhausted 
all  the  adjectives  expressive  of  admiration,  "  is  the  jour  de  I'an,  New 
Year's,  as  you  call  it.  Then  Tante  Modeste  and  the  children  come 
and  bring  bonbons  and  fireworks,  and  the  street  is  lighted  from  one 
end  to  the  other,  and  the  sky  is  full  of  rockets  and  Roman  candles, 
and  there  is  so  much  noise,  and  every  one  is  merry — because  the 
New  Year  has  come." 

At  that  moment,  Tite  Souris  entered  with  an  expressive  grin  on 
her  ebony  face,  and  an  air  of  great  mystery : 

"  Here  you,  chil'runs,  I  done  got  yer  Crismus  ;  doan'  say  nufin 
'bout  it,  'cause  't  ain't  nufin'  much.  I  ain't  got  no  money  ter  buy  dolls 
an'  sech  ;  so  I  jes  bought  yer  boaf  a  '  stage  plank.'  I  lowed  yer  might 
lak  a  *  stage  plank.' ' 

Unfolding  a  large  yellow  paper,  she  laid  a  huge  sheet  of  coarse 
black  ginger-bread  on  the  table  among  Lady  Jane's  treasures. 

"  Thank  you,  Tite,"  said  Lady  Jane,  eyeing  the  strange  object 
askance.  "What  is  it?" 

"  Oh  Lor',  Miss  Lady,  ain't  ye  neber  seed  a  '  stage  plank '  ?  It 's 
ter  eat.  It  's  good, — ain't  it,  Miss  Peps'  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  Tite  ;  I  never  ate  one,"  replied  Pepsie,  smiling 
broadly,  "but  I  dare  say  it's  good.  It's  kind  of  you  to  think  of  us, 
and  we  '11  try  it  by  and  by." 

"Dear  me!"  said  Pepsie,  after  Tite,  who  was  grinning  with 
satisfaction,  had  left  the  room.  "What  shall  we  do  with  it?  We 
can't  eat  it." 


LADY   JANE.  1 15 

"  Perhaps  Tony  will,"  exclaimed  Lady  Jane,  eagerly.  "  He  will 
eat  almost  anything.  He  ate  all  Tante  Pauline's  shrimps,  the  other  day, 
and  he  swallowed  two  live  toads  in  Mam'selle  Diane's  garden.  Oh, 
he  's  got  a  dreadful  appetite.  Tante  Pauline  says  she  can't  afford 
to  feed  him."  And  she  looked  anxiously  at  her  greedy  pet. 

"  Well,  we  '11  try  him,"  said  Pepsie,  breaking  off  a  piece  of  the 
'stage  plank'  and  throwing  it  to  Tony.  The  bird  gobbled  it  down 
promptly,  and  then  looked  for  more. 

Lady  Jane  clapped  her  hands  delightedly.  "  Oh,  is  n't  Tony 
nice  to  eat  it  ?  But  we  must  n't  let  Tite  know,  because  she  'd  be 
sorry  that  we  did  n't  like  it.  We  '11  keep  it  and  give  it  all  to  Tony," 
and  in  this  way  Tite's  "  stage  plank  "  was  disposed  of. 

If  Christmas  was  a  merry  day  to  Lady  Jane,  New  Year's  was 
certainly  a  happy  one.  The  Paichoux  children  came,  as  Pepsie  said 
they  would,  loaded  with  bonbons  and  fireworks,  and  all  day  the 
neighborhood  was  lively  with  their  fun  —  and  such  a  dinner  as  they 
brought  with  them  !  Lady  Jane  thought  there  never  could  be  any 
thing  as  pretty  as  the  table  in  Madelon's  little  room,  loaded,  as  it 
was,  with  all  sorts  of  good  things.  Tante  Modeste  went  home  to 
dine  with  her  husband,  but  the  children  remained  until  the  milk-cart 
came  for  them  when  it  was  quite  dark. 

After  they  were  all  gone,  and  quiet  was  restored  to  the  tiny 
dwelling,  Lady  Jane  remarked  to  Pepsie  that  she  thought  New 
Year's  was  better  than  Christmas. 

"But  just  wait,"  said  Pepsie,  smiling  mysteriously,  "just  wait 
until  Carnival.  Christmas  and  New  Year's  are  lovely ;  but  Mardi- 
gras  —  oh,  Mardi-gras  !  there  's  nothing  like  it  in  the  world  !  " 

Lady  Jane  wondered  very  much  what  "  Mardi-gras "  was,  but 
tried  to  wait  patiently  until  that  wonderful  day  should  arrive.  The 
time  did  not  pass  slowly  to  her,  surrounded  as  she  was  by  tender 
care  and  affection. 


n6 


LADY    JANE. 


Pepsie  was  teaching  her  to  read  and  sew,  and  Mam'selle  Diane 
was  drilling  her  in  scales, — although  at  times  Madame  d'Hautreve 
grumbled  and  quavered  about  the  noise,  and  declared  that  the  child 
was  too  young ;  for,  stretch  them  all  she  could,  her  tiny  fingers 
would  not  reach  an  octave. 


And  then  there  were  the  dancing  lessons,  which  were  always  a 
pleasure,  and  a  constant  source  of  amusement  in  which  Pepsie  and 
Tite  Souris  shared;  Pepsie  as  an  enraptured  spectator,  and  Tite 


LADY   JANE.  II? 

Souris  by  personating  Mr.  Gex  in  Lady  Jane's  frequent  rehearsals  ; 
and  even  Tony  had  caught  the  spirit  of  Terpsichore,  and  under 
Lady  Jane's  constant  instruction  had  learned  to  take  steps,  to  mince 
and  hop  and  pirouette,  if  not  as  correctly,  at  least  as  gracefully  as  the 
ancient  Professor  Gex. 

Tite  Souris  had  happened  to  pass  Gex's  little  shop  one  day 
while  Lady  Jane  was  taking  her  lesson,  and  from  that  moment  the 
humorous  darky  could  never  speak  of  the  little  dancing-master 
without  loud  explosions  of  laughter.  "  Oh  Lor',  Miss  Peps',  I  wish 
you  jes'  done  seed  littl'  Mars  Gex,  a-stanin'  up  wid  he  toes  turn  out 
so  he  look  lak  he  o'ny  got  one  foot,  an'  he  ap'on  roll  up  un'er  he 
arms,  an'  he  hands  jes'  so,"  —  here  Tite  caught  the  sides  of  her  scant 
skirt,  displaying  two  enormous  feet  and  a  pair  of  thin  black  legs — 
"  a-steppin',  an'  a-hoppin'  an'  a-whirlin'  an'  a-smilin'  wid  he  eyes  shet, 
jes'  as  if  he  done  got  religion,  an'  was  so  happy  he  doan'  know  what'er 
do.  An'  Miss  Lady,  wid  'er  head  on  one  side,  lak  a  morkin'  bird, 
a-holdin'  out  'er  littl'  skirt,  an'  a-steppin',  an'  a-prancin',  for  all  de 
worl'  jes'  lak  Mars  Gex,  an'  a-puttin'  'er  han'  on  'er  bre's',  an' 
a-bowin'  so  'er  y?Her  har  all-a-mos'  tech  der  flo'.  Lor',  Lor',  I  done 
mos'  die  a-larfin'.  Such  cuttin's  up  yer  nebber  did  see  !  It  's  might' 
funny,  Miss  Peps',  all  dis  yer  dancin'  an'  a-caperin',  but  I  'se  scared 
'bout  Miss  Lady  wid  all  dem  goin's  on.  I  'm  feared  der  goble- 
uns  '11  ketch  'er  sum  time,  w'en  'ers  a-steppin'  an'  a-hoppin',  an'  tote 
'er  off  ter  dat  dar  ole  wicked  devil,  wat  's  watchin'  fer  triflin'  chil'ren 
lak  dat,  'cause  Deacon  Jone  say,  der  devil  '11  git  all  pussuns  wat 
dance,  shore,  shore." 

"  Nonsense,  Tite,  go  away  !  "  cried  Pepsie,  laughing  till  the  tears 
came  at  her  handmaid's  droll  pantomime.  "  If  what  you  say  is 
true,  where  do  you  think  you  '11  go  to  ?  Have  n't  you  been  acting 
Mr.  Gex  for  Miss  Lady,  over  and  over,  when  she 's  been  repeating  her 
dancing-lesson  to  me  ?  Have  n't  you  been  standing  right  up  on  that 


Il8  LADY    JANE. 

floor,  holding  out  your  skirt,  and  dancing  back  and  forth,  and  whirl 
ing,  and  prancing,  as  much  like  Mr.  Gex  as  you  possibly  could? 
Have  rit  you  now,  Tite  ?  And  I  'm  sure  the  'gobble-uns'  would 
take  an  ugly  black  thing  like  you  before  they  would  a  little  angel 
like  Miss  Lady." 

"  But  I  war  jes'  a-funnin',  Miss  Peps*.  Dat  ole  devil  know  I  war 
jes'  a-funnin' ;  an'  he  ain't  gwine  ter  tote  me  off  w'en  I  ain't  done  no 
harm  ;  't  ain't  lak  I  war  in  earnest,  yer  know,  Miss  Peps'."  And  with 
this  nice  distinction  Tite  comforted  herself  and  went  on  her  way 
rejoicing. 

About  this  time  Madame  Jozain  was  seized  with  a  sudden  spasm 
of  piety  and  took  to  going  to  church  again.  However,  she  kept  at 
a  discreet  distance  from  Father  Ducros,  who,  at  the  time  of  the  death 
of  the  young  widow,  had  asked  her  some  rather  searching  questions, 
and  several  times  when  he  met  her  afterwards  remarked  that  she 
seemed  to  have  given  up  church-going.  She  was  very  glad,  there 
fore,  when  about  this  time  she  heard  that  he  had  been  sent  to  Cuba 
on  a  mission,  which  Madame  hoped  would  detain  him  there  always. 
One  Sunday  it  occurred  to  her  that  she  ought  to  take  Lady  Jane 
to  church  with  her,  and  not  allow  her  to  grow  up  like  a  heathen  ; 
and  besides,  the  child  dressed  in  her  best  had  such  an  air  of  distinc 
tion  that  she  would  add  greatly  to  the  elegant  appearance  Madame 
desired  to  make. 

Pepsie  had  a  knack  of  dressing  Lady  Jane  as  Madame  never 
could;  so  the  little  girl  was  sent  across  the  street  to  be  made  beauti 
ful,  with  flowing  glossy  hair  and  dainty  raiment.  And  when  Madame, 
dressed  in  one  of  the  young  widow's  elegant  mourning  suits,  some 
what  changed  to  better  suit  her  age  and  position,  leading  Lady  Jane 
by  the  hand  with  a  gentle  maternal  air,  limped  slowly  up  the  broad 
aisle  of  the  Cathedral,  she  felt  perfectly  satisfied  with  herself  and  her 
surroundings. 


LADY   JANE.  119 

Lady  Jane  had  never  been  in  a  church  before,  and  the  immense 
interior,  the  grand,  solemn  notes  of  the  organ,  and  the  heavenly  music 
of  the  choir  made  a  deep  and  lasting  impression  upon  her,  and 
opened  up  to  her  new  vistas  of  life  through  which  her  pure  little 
soul  longed  to  stray. 

The  musical  nature  is  often  a  religious  nature,  and  in  the  child 
was  a  deep  vein  of  piety,  which  only  needed  working  to  produce  the 
richest  results  ;  therefore,  the  greatest  of  all  her  pleasures  from  that 
time  was  to  go  to  church  and  listen  to  the  music,  and  afterwards  to 
tell  Pepsie  of  all  she  had  seen  and  enjoyed,  and  to  repeat,  as  far  as  it 
was  possible  with  her  small,  sweet  voice,  the  heavenly  strains  of  the 
anthems  she  had  heard. 


CHAPTER    XIX 

MARDI-GRAS 

9 

ONE  morning  —  it  was  the  day  before  "  Mardi-Gras"—  when 
Lady  Jane  entered  Pepsie's  room,   instead  of  finding  her 
friend  engaged  in  her  usual  occupation,  the  table  was  cleared 
of  all  that  pertained  to  business,  and  on  it  was  spread  a  quantity 
of  pink  cambric,  which   Pepsie  was  measuring  and  snipping  with 
great  gravity. 

"Oh,  Pepsie,  what  are  you  making?"  cried  Lady  Jane,  greatly 
surprised  at  this  display  of  finery. 

"  It  's  a  domino,"  replied  Pepsie  curtly,  her  mouth  full  of  pins. 
"  A  domino,  a  domino,"  repeated  Lady  Jane.    "  What 's  a  domino  ? 

I  never  saw  one." 

"  Of  course,  you  never  saw  one,  because  you  never  saw  a  '  Mardi- 
gras,'"  said  Pepsie,  removing  the  pins,  and  smiling  to  herself  as  she 
smoothed  the  pattern  on  the  cloth. 

"Mardi-gras!  Is  it  for  Mardi-gras  ?  "  asked  Lady  Jane  eagerly. 
"  You  might  tell  me  all  about  it.  I  don't  know  what  it  's  for,"  she 
added,  much  puzzled,  and  somewhat  annoyed  at  Pepsie's  air  of 

secrecy. 

"  Well,  it's  for  some  one  to  wear,  Mardi-gras,"  replied  Pepsie,  still 
smiling  serenely,  and  with  an  exasperating  air  of  mystery. 

"Oh,  Pepsie  —  who,  who  is  it  for?"  cried  Lady  Jane,  pressing 
close,  and  putting  both  arms  around  her  friend's  neck;  "tell  me, 
please,  do !  If  it 's  a  secret  I  won't  tell." 


LADY    JANE.  121 

"  Oh,  it  's  for  a  little  girl  I  know,"  said  Pepsie,  cutting  and  slash 
ing  the  cambric  with  the  greatest  indifference,  and  evidently  bent  on 
keeping  her  own  counsel. 

Lady  Jane  stood  still  for  a  moment,  letting  her  arms  fall  from 
Pepsie's  neck.  Her  face  was  downcast,  and  something  like  a  tear 
shone  on  her  lashes;  then,  a  little  slowly  and  thoughtfully,  she 
climbed  into  her  chair  on  the  other  side  of  the  table,  and,  leaning  on 
her  elbows,  watched  the  absorbed  Pepsie  silently. 

Pepsie  pinned,  and  snipped,  and  smoothed,  all  the  while  smiling 
with  that  little  air  of  unconcern  which  so  puzzled  the  child.  Presently, 
without  looking  up,  she  said : 

"  Can't  you  guess,  Lady,  who  it  's  for?  " 

"  Is  n't  it  for  Sophie  Paichoux?"  ventured  Lady  Jane. 

"  No,  no,"  said  Pepsie  decidedly;  "the  one  I  mean  it  for  is  n't 
any  relation  to  me." 

"  Then,  I  don't  know  any  other  little  girl.  Oh,  Pepsie,  I  can't 
guess." 

"  Why,  you  dear,  stupid,  little  goose ! "  cried  Pepsie,  laughing 
aloud. 

"  Oh,  Pepsie.  It  is  n't!  is  it?"  and  Lady  Jane's  eyes  shone  like 
stars,  and  her  face  broke  into  a  radiant  smile.  "  Do  you  mean  it  for 
me  ?  Really,  do  you,  Pepsie  ?  " 

"  Why,  certainly.  Who  do  you  think  I  'd  make  it  for,  if  not  for 
you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  dear,  darling  Pepsie !  But  why  did  n't  you  say  so  just 
at  first?  Why  —  why  did  you  make  me,"  she  hesitated  for  a  word, 
and  then  added,  "why  did  you  make  me  —  jealous?" 

"  I  only  wanted  to  tease  you  a  little,"  laughed  Pepsie.  "  I  wanted 
to  see  if  you  'd  guess  right  off.  I  thought  you  'd  know  right  away 
that  I  did  n't  love  any  one  else  well  enough  to  make  a  domino  for 
her,  and  I  wanted  to  try  you,  that  was  all." 


122  LADY    JANE. 

This  rather  ambiguous  explanation  was  quite  satisfactory,  and 
after  a  great  many  caresses  Pepsie  went  on  to  tell  that  Tante  Mod- 
este  had  been  there  very  early,  and  that  she  had  invited  Lady  Jane 
to  go  in  her  milk-cart,  that  afternoon,  up  on  Canal  Street  to  see 
the  King  of  the  Carnival  arrive.  The  cans  were  to  be  taken  out 
of  the  cart,  and  an  extra  seat  was  to  be  put  in,  so  that  all  the  young 
ones  could  take  part  in  the  glorious  spectacle. 

Then  Pepsie  waited  for  Lady  Jane  to  get  her  breath  before  she 
finished  telling  her  of  Tante  Modeste's  plans  for  the  next  day, 
the  long-looked-for  Mardi-gras. 

The  little  Paichoux  wanted  Lady  Jane  to  see  everything;  by 
some  means  she  must  take  an  active  part  in  the  festivities  ;  she  must  be 
on  Canal  Street  not  as  a  spectator,  but  as  an  actor  in  the  gay  scene. 

"  Children  don't  enjoy  it  half  as  well,  at  least  mine  don't,"  said 
Tante  Modeste,  "if  they  're  cooped  up  in  a  cart,  or  on  a  gallery,  so 
the  best  way  is  to  put  a  domino  on  them,  and  turn  them  in  with  the 
crowd." 

"But  I'm  afraid  for  Lady,"  demurred  Pepsie,  "she  might  get 
frightened  in  such  a  crowd,  or  she  might  get  lost." 

"  You  need  n't  be  afraid  of  that ;  Tiburce  is  going  to  take  care  of 
my  young  ones,  and  I  Ve  told  him  that  he  must  hold  fast  to  the  child 
all  the  time.  Then,  Tite  can  go  too  ;  I  Ve  got  an  old  domino  that  '11 
do  for  her,  and  she  can  keep  the  child's  hand  fast  on  the  other  side. 
If  they  keep  together,  there  's  no  danger." 

"  But  perhaps  Madame  Jozain  won't  allow  her  to  go  on  Canal 
Street." 

"  Yes,  she  will,  she  '11  be  glad  to  get  rid  of  the  care  of  the  child. 
I  just  met  her  coming  from  market,  she  had  a  cream  cheese  for  the 
little  one.  I  guess  she  's  pretty  good  to  her,  when  it  does  n't  put  her 
out.  She  says  Madame  Hortense,  the  milliner,  on  Canal  Street,  is  an 
old  friend  of  hers,  and  she  's  invited  her  to  come  and  sit  on  her  gallery 


"LADY  JANE  CLUNG  TIGHTLY  TO  TIBURCE   ON    ONE    SIDE  AND  TITE   ON   THE  OTHER."      (SEE  P.   126.) 


LADY   JANE.  125 

and  see  the  show,  and  there  's  no  room  for  children,  so  she  '11  be  very 
glad  to  have  her  niece  taken  care  of,  and  it's  so  good  of  me,  and  all 
that.  Oh  dear,  dear  !  I  can't  like  that  woman.  I  may  be  wrong,  but 
she  's  a  dose  I  can't  swallow,"  and  Tante  Modeste  shrugged  her 
shoulders  and  laughed. 

"  But  Lady  's  got  no  domino,"  said  Pepsie  ruefully,  "and  I  'm  afraid 
Madame  Jozain  won't  make  her  one." 

"  Never  mind  saying  anything  to  her  about  it.  Here 's  two  bits. 
Send  Tite  for  some  cambric,  and  I  '11  cut  you  a  pattern  in  a  minute. 
I  Ve  made  so  many  I  know  all  about  it,  and,  my  dear,  you  can  sew 
it  up  through  the  day.  Have  her  ready  by  nine  o'clock.  I  '11  be  here 
by  nine.  I  'm  going  to  take  them  all  up  in  the  cart  and  turn  them 
out,  and  they  can  come  back  to  me  when  they  're  tired." 

In  this  way  Tante  Modeste  surmounted  all  difficulties,  and  the 
next  morning  Lady  Jane,  completely  enveloped  in  a  little  pink  domino, 
with  a  tiny  pink  mask  carefully  fastened  over  her  rosy  face,  and  her 
blue  eyes  wide  with  delight  and  wonder  sparkling  through  the  two 
holes,  was  lifted  into  the  milk  cart  with  the  brood  of  little  Paichoux, 
and  with  many  good-byes  to  poor  forlorn  Pepsie  and  to  Tony,  who 
was  standing  dejectedly  on  one  leg,  the  happy  child  was  rattled  away 
in  the  bright  sunlight,  through  the  merry,  noisy  crowd,  to  that  center 
of  every  delight,  Canal  Street,  on  Mardi-gras. 

There  was  no  room  for  Tite  Souris  in  the  cart,  so  that  dusky 
maiden,  arrayed  in  the  colors  of  a  demon  of  darkness,  an  old  red 
domino  with  black,  bat-like  wings,  was  obliged  to  take  herself  to  the 
rendezvous,  near  the  Clay  statue,  by  whatever  means  of  locomotion 
she  could  command.  When  the  cart  was  passing  Rue  Royale,  there 
was  Tite  in  her  uncanny  disguise,  flapping  her  black  wings,  and 
scuttling  along  as  fast  as  her  thin  legs  would  carry  her. 

At  last  the  excited  party  in  the  milk  cart  and  the  model  for  a 
diabolical  flying  machine  were  together  under  Tante  Modeste's 


126 


LADY    JANE, 


severe  scrutiny,  listening  with  much-divided  attention  to  her  final 

instructions. 

"Tiburce,  attend  to  what  I  tell  you,"  she  said  impressively;  "  you 

are  the  eldest  of  the  party,  and  you  must  take  care  of  the  little  ones, 

especially  of  Lady  Jane  ;  keep  her  hand 
in  yours  all  the  time,  mind  what  I  say 
—  don't  let  go  of  her.  And  you,  Tite, 
keep  on  the  other  side  and  hold  her 
hand  fast.  Sophie,  you  can  go  in  front 
with  the  two  smallest,  and  the  others 
can  followbehind.  Nowkeep  together, 
and  go  along  decently,  no  running  or 
racketing  on  the  street,  and  as  soon  as 
the  procession  passes,  you  had  better 
come  back  to  me.  You  will  be  tired 
and  ready  to  go  home.  And  Tite,  re 
member  what  Miss  Pepsie  told  you 
about  Miss  Lady.  If  you  let  anything 
happen  to  her,  you  'd  better  go  and 
drown  yourself." 

Tite,  with  her  wings  poised  for 
flight,  promised  everything,  even  to 
drowning  herself  if  necessary  ;  and  be 
fore  Tante  Modeste  had  climbed  into 
her  cart  the  whole  brood  had  disap 
peared  amongst  the  motley  crowd. 

At  first,  Lady  Jane  was  a  little 
frightened  at  the  noise  and  confusion  ; 

but  she  had  a  brave  little  heart,  and  clung  tightly  to  Tiburce  on  one 

side  and  Tite  on  the  other.     In  a  few  moments  she  was  quite  reas 
sured  and  as  happy  as  any  of  the  merry  little  imps  around  her. 


"THERE   WERE   DEMONS   AND  ANGELS, 

CLOWNS   AND   MONKS,   IMPS   AND 

FAIRIES."      (SEE   PAGE    127.) 


LADY   JANE.  127 

It  was  delightful ;  she  seemed  to  be  carried  along  in  a  stream  of 
riotous  life,  all  disguised  and  decorated  to  suit  their  individual  fancies. 
There  were  demons  and  angels,  clowns  and  monks,  imps  and  fairies, 
animals  and  birds,  fish  and  insects  —  in  fact,  everything  that  the  richest 
imagination  could  devise. 

At  first,  Tite  Souris  ambled  along  quite  decorously,  making  now 
and  then  a  little  essay  at  flying  with  her  one  free  wing,  which  gave 
her  a  curious  one-sided  appearance,  provoking  much  mirth  among  the 
little  Paichoux;  but  at  length  restraint  became  irksome,  and  finally  im 
possible.  She  could  bear  it  no  longer,  even  if  she  died  for  it.  Ignoring 
all  her  promises,  and  the  awful  reckoning  in  store  for  her,  with  one 
bound  for  freedom  she  tore  herself  from  Lady  Jane's  clinging  hand 
and,  flapping  her  hideous  wings,  plunged  into  the  crowd,  and  was  in 
stantly  swallowed  up  in  the  vortex  of  humanity  that  whirled  everywhere. 

The  procession  was  coming,  the  crowd  grew  very  dense,  and  they 
were  pulled,  and  pushed,  and  jostled  ;  but  still  Tiburce,  wno  was  a 
strong,  courageous  boy,  held  his  ground,  and  landed  Lady  Jane  on  a 
window-sill,  where  she  could  have  a  good  view.  The  other  Paichoux, 
under  the  generalship  of  Sophie,  came  up  to  form  a  guard,  and  so,  in 
a  very  secure  and  comfortable  position,  in  spite  of  Tite's  desertion 
Lady  Jane  saw  the  procession  of  King  Rex,  and  his  royal  household. 

When  Tiburce  told  her  that  the  beautiful  Boeuf  gras,  decorated  so 
gaily  with  flowers  and  ribbons,  would  be  killed  and  eaten  afterward, 
she  almost  shed  tears,  and  when  he  further  informed  her  that  King 
Rex  was  no  King  at  all,  only  a  citizen  dressed  as  a  King  in  satin  and 
velvet,  and  feathers,  she  doubted  it,  and  still  clung  to  the  illusion  that 
he  must  sit  always  on  a  throne,  and  wear  a  crown,  according  to  the 
traditions  of  Mr.  Gex. 

Now  that  the  procession  was  over,  all  might  have  gone  well  if 
Tiburce  had  held  out  as  he  began ;  but  alas !  in  an  evil  moment,  he 
yielded  to  temptation  and  fell. 


128 


LADY    JANE. 


They  were  on  their  way  back  to  Tante  Modeste,  quite  satisfied 
with  all  they  had  seen,  when  they  came  upon  a  crowd  gathered  around 
the  door  of  a  fashionable  club.  From  the  balcony  above  a  party  of 
young  men,  who  were  more  generous  than  wise,  were  throwing  small 


THE   MARDI-GRAS    PROCESSION.      THE   BCEUF   GRAS.      (SEE   PAGE    127.) 

change,  dimes  and  nickels,  into  the  crowd,  that  the  rabble  might 
scramble  for  them  ;  and  there  right  in  the  midst  of  the  seething  mass 
was  Tite  Souris,  her  domino  hanging  in  rags,  her  wings  gone,  and 
her  whole  appearance  very  dilapidated  and  disorderly;  but  the  demon 
of  greed  was  gleaming  in  her  eyes,  and  her  teeth  were  showing  in  a 


LADY   JANE.  129 

fierce,  white  line,  while  she  plunged  and  struggled  and  battled  for  the 
root  of  all  evil. 

Tiburce's  first  intention  was  to  make  a  detour  of  the  crowd  ;  but 
just  as  he  was  about  to  do  so  the  gleam  of  a  dime  on  the  edge  of 
the  sidewalk  caught  his  eye,  and,  overcome  by  the  spirit  of  avarice, 
he  forgot  everything,  and  dropped  Lady  Jane's  hand  to  make  a  dive 
for  it. 

Lady  Jane  never  knew  how  it  happened,  but  in  an  instant  she 
was  whirled  away  from  the  Paichoux,  swept  on  with  the  crowd  that 
a  policeman  was  driving  before  him,  and  carried  she  knew  not  where. 

At  first  she  ran  hither  and  thither,  seizing  upon  every  domino 
that  bore  the  least  resemblance  to  her  companions,  and  calling  Tiburce, 
Sophie,  Nanette,  in  heartrending  tones,  until  quite  exhausted  she 
sank  down  in  a  doorway,  and  watched  the  crowd  surge  past  her. 


CHAPTER   XX 

LADY    JANE    DINES    WITH    MR.    GEX 

FOR  some  time  Lady  Jane  sat  in  the  doorway,  not  knowing 
just  what  to  do.  She  was  very  tired,  and  at  first  she  was 
inclined  to  rest,  thinking  that  Tiburce  would  come  back  and 
find  her  there ;  then  when  no  one  noticed  her,  and  it  seemed  very 
long  that  she  had  waited,  she  felt  inclined  to  cry;  but  she  was  a 
sensible,  courageous  little  soul,  and  knew  that  tears  would  do  no 
good;  besides  it  was  very  uncomfortable,  crying  behind  a  mask. 
Her  eyes  burned,  and  her  head  ached,  and  she  was  hungry  and 
thirsty,  and  yet  Tiburce  did  n't  come ;  perhaps  they  had  forgotten 
her  altogether,  and  had  got  into  the  milk-cart,  and  gone  home. 

This  thought  was  too  much  to  bear  calmly,  so  she  started  to 
her  feet,  determined  to  try  to  find  them  if  they  were  not  coming 
to  search  for  her. 

She  did  not  know  which  way  to  turn,  for  the  crowd  confused 
her  terribly.  Sometimes  a  rude  imp  in  a  domino  would  push  her,  or 
twitch  her  sleeve,  and  then,  as  frightened  as  a  hunted  hare,  she  would 
dart  into  the  first  doorway,  and  wait  until  her  tormentor  had  passed. 
She  was  such  a  delicate  little  creature  to  be  buffeted  by  a  turbulent 
crowd,  and  had  it  not  been  for  the  disguise  of  the  domino  she  would 
soon  have  found  a  protector  amongst  those  she' fled  from. 

After  wandering  around  for  some  time,  she  found  herself  very 
near  the  spot  she  started  from ;  and,  thankful  for  the  friendly  shelter 
of  the  doorway,  she  slipped  into  it  and  sat  down  to  think  and  rest. 
She  wanted  to  take  off  her  mask  and  cool  her  hot  face,  but  she 


130 


LADY   JANE.  131 

did  not  dare  to ;  for  some  reason  she  felt  that  her  disguise  was  a 
protection ;  but  how  could  any  one  find  her  when  there  were  dozens 
of  little  figures  flitting  about  in  pink  dominos? 

While  she  sat  there  thinking  and  wondering  what  she  should 
do,  she  noticed  a  carriage  drive  up  to  the  next  door,  and  two  gentle 
men  got  out,  followed  by  a  young  man.  When  the  youth  turned  his 
face  toward  her,  she  started  up  excitedly,  and  holding  out  her  hands 
she  cried  out  pitifully,  "It  's  me;  it  's  Lady  Jane." 

The  young  fellow  glanced  around  him  with  a  startled  look; 
he  heard  the  little  cry,  but  did  not  catch  the  words,  and  it  moved 
him  strangely ;  he  thought  it  sounded  like  some  small  creature  in 
pain,  but  he  only  saw  a  little  figure  in  a  soiled  pink  domino  standing 
in  the  next  doorway,  some  little  street  gamin,  he  supposed,  and 
without  further  notice  he  passed  her,  and  followed  his  companions  up 
the  steps. 

It  was  the  boy  who  gave  Lady  Jane  the  blue  heron,  and  he  had 
passed  her  without  seeing  her ;  she  had  called  to  him,  and  he  had  not 
heard  her.  This  was  too  much,  she  could  not  bear  it,  and  withdraw 
ing  again  into  her  retreat  she  sat  down  and  burst  into  a  passion  of 
tears. 

For  a  long  while  she  cried  silently,  then  she  fell  asleep  and 
forgot  for  a  time  all  her  troubles.  When  she  woke  a  rude  man  was 
pulling  her  to  her  feet,  and  telling  her  to  wake  up  and  go  home ; 
he  had  a  stick  and  bright  buttons  on  his  coat.  "A  young  one  tired 
out  and  gone  to  sleep,"  he  muttered,  as  he  went  on  his  way. 

Then  Lady  Jane  began  to  think  that  that  place  was  no  longer 
a  safe  refuge ;  the  man  with  the  stick  might  come  back  and  beat  her 
if  she  remained  there,  so  she  started  out  and  crept  along  close  to 
the  high  buildings.  She  wondered  if  it  was  near  night,  and  what 
she  should  do  when  it  got  dark.  Oh,  if  Tante  Modeste,  Tiburce,  or 
Madelon  would  only  come  for  her,  or  Tante  Pauline,—  even  she  would 


132  LADY   JANE. 

be  a  welcome  sight,  and  she  would  not  run  away  from  Raste,  although 
she  detested  him ;  he  pulled  her  hair  and  teased  her,  and  called  her 
"  My  Lady/'  but  still  if  he  should  come  just  then  she  would  not  run 
away  from  him,  she  would  ask  him  to  take  her  home. 

At  that  moment  some  one  behind  her  gave  her  domino  a  violent 
pull,  and  she  looked  around  wildly ;  an  imp  in  yellow  and  black  was 
following  her.  A  strand  of  her  bright  hair  had  escaped  from  her  hood 
and  fallen  over  her  back ;  he  had  it  in  his  hand,  and  was  using  it  as 
a  rein.  "  Get  up,  my  little  nag,"  he  was  saying,  in  a  rude,  imperti 
nent  voice;  "  come,  trot,  trot."  At  first  she  tried  to  jerk  her  hair 
away;  she  was  so  tired  and  frightened  that  she  could  scarcely 
stand,  but  she  turned  on  her  tormentor  and  bade  him  leave  her 
alone. 

"  I  'm  going  to  pull  off  your  mask,"  he  said,  "and  see  if  you  ain't 
Mary  O'Brien."  He  made  a  clutch  at  her,  but  Lady  Jane  evaded  it; 
all  the  spirit  in  her  was  aroused  by  this  assault,  and  the  usually  gen 
tle  child  was  transformed  into  a  little  fury.  "  Don't  touch  me,"  she 
cried  ;  "  don't  touch  me," — and  she  struck  the  yellow  and  black  imp 
full  in  the  face  with  all  her  strength. 

Now  this  blow  was  the  signal  for  a  battle,  in  which  Lady  Jane 
was  sadly  worsted,  for  in  a  few  moments  the  boy,  who  was  older 
and  of  course  stronger,  had  torn  her  domino  from  her  in  ribbons, 
had  snatched  off  her  mask,  and  pulled  the  hood  from  her  head, 
which  unloosened  all  her  beautiful  hair,  allowing  it  to  fall  in  a 
golden  shower  far  below  her  waist,  and  there  she  stood  with 
flashing  eyes  and  burning  cheeks,  quivering  and  panting  in  the 
midst  of  a  strange,  rude  crowd,  like  a  little  wild  hunted  animal 
suddenly  brought  to  bay. 

At  that  moment  she  saw  some  one  leap  on  to  the  banquette,  and 
with  one  well-aimed  and  dexterous  kick  send  her  enemy  sprawling 
into  the  gutter,  while  all  the  bystanders  shouted  with  laughter. 


"SHE    CRIED    OUT   PITIFULLY,   'IT  's    LADY  JANE.'"      (SEE   PAGE    131.) 


LADY   JANE.  135 

It  was  Gex,  little  Gex,  who  had  come  to  her  rescue,  and  never 
did  fair  lady  cling  with  greater  joy  and  gratitude  to  the  knight  who 
had  delivered  her  from  the  claws  of  a  dragon,  than  did  Lady  Jane  to 
the  little  horny  hand  of  the  ancient  professeur  of  the  dance. 

For  a  moment  she  could  not  speak ;  she  was  so  exhausted  with 
her  battle  and  so  overcome  with  delight  that  she  had  no  voice  to 
express  her  feelings. 

Gex  understood  the  situation,  and  with  great  politeness  and 
delicacy  led  her  into  a  pharmacy  near,  smoothed  her  disordered 
dress  and  hair,  and  gave  her  a  glass  of  soda. 

This  so  revived  the  little  lady  that  she  found  voice  to  say  :  "  Oh, 
Mr.  Gex,  how  did  you  know  where  I  was  ?  " 

"  I  did  n't,  I  did  n't,"  replied  Gex  tremulously.  "  It  vas  vhat  you 
call  one  accident.  I  vas  just  going  down  the  Rue  Royale,  vas  just 
turning  the  corner,  I  vas  on  my  vay  home.  I  'd  finished  my  Mardi- 
gras,  all  I  vant  of  the  noise  and  foolishness,  and  I  vas  going  back  to 
Rue  des  Bons  Enfants,  vhen  I  hears  one  leetle  girl  cry  out,  and 
I  look  and  saw  the  yellow  devil  pull  down  my  leetle  lady's  hair. 
Oh,  bon,  bon,  did  n't  I  give  him  one  blow !  —  did  n't  I  send  him 
in  the  gutter  flying  ! " —  and  Gex  rubbed  his  hands  and  chuckled 
with  delight.  "And  how  lucky  vas  I  to  have  one  accident  to  find 
my  leetle  lady,  vhen  she  vas  in  trouble ! " 

Then  Lady  Jane  and  Mr.  Gex  turned  down  Rue  Royale,  and 
while  she  skipped  along  holding  his  hand,  her  troubles  all  forgotten, 
she  told  him  how  it  happened  that  she  had  been  separated  from 
Tiburce,  and  of  all  her  subsequent  misadventures. 

Presently,  Gex  stopped  before  a  neat  little  restaurant,  whose 
window  presented  a  very  tempting  appearance,  and,  looking  at  Lady 
Jane  with  a  broad,  inviting  smile,  said,  "  I  should  like  to  know  if  my 
leetle  lady  vas  hungry.  It  is  past  four  of  the  clock,  and  I  should  like 
to  give  my  leetle  lady  von  Mardi-gras  dinner." 


LADY   JANE. 

"Oh  thank  you,  Mr.  Gex,"  cried  Lady  Jane,  delightedly,  for  the 
smell  of  the  savory  food  appealed  to  her  empty  stomach.  "I  'm  so 
hungry  that  I  can't  wait  until  I  get  home." 

"  Veil,  you  shan't;  this  is  one  nice  place,  vairy  chic  and  fashion 
able,  fit  for  one  leetle  lady,  and  you  shall  see  that  Gex  can  order  one 
fine  dinner,  as  veil  as  teach  the  dance." 

When  the  quaint  little  old  man,  in  his  antiquated  black  suit,  a 
relic  of  other  and  better  days,  entered  the  room,  with  the  beautiful 
child,  rosy  and  bareheaded,  her  yellow  hair  flying  out  like  spun  silk, 
and  her  dainty  though  disordered  dress  plainly  showing  her  supe 
rior  position,  every  eye  was  turned  upon  him,  and  Gex  felt  the  stir 
rings  of  old  pride  and  ambition,  as  he  placed  a  chair  with  great 
ceremony,  and  lifted  Lady  Jane  into  it.  Then  he  drew  out  his  spec 
tacles  with  much  dignity,  and,  taking  the  card  the  waiter  handed 
him,  waited,  pencil  poised,  for  the  orders  of  the  young  lady. 

"  If  you  please,"  he  said,  with  a  formal  bow,  and  an  inviting  smile, 
"  to  tell  me  vhat  you  prefair." 

Lady  Jane  frowned  and  bit  her  lips  at  the  responsibility  of 
deciding  so  important  a  matter ;  at  length  she  said,  with  sparkling 
eyes  and  a  charming  smile  : 

"  If  you  please,  Mr.  Gex,  I  '11  take  some  —  some  ice  cream." 

"  But  first,  my  leetle  lady, —  but  first,  one  leetle  plat  of  soup,  and 
the  fish  with  sauce  verte,  and  one  leetle  bird, — just  one  leetle  bird 
vith  the  petit  pois, —  and  one  fine,  good,  leetle  salad.  How  vould 
that  suit  my  leetle  lady  ?  " 

"  And  ice  cream  ?  "  questioned  Lady  Jane,  leaning  forward  with 
her  little  hands  clasped  primly  in  her  lap. 

"  And  after,  yes,  one  creme  a  la  glace,  one  cake,  and  one  leetle 
bunch  of  raisin,  grape  you  say,"  repeated  Gex,  as  he  wrote  labori 
ously  with  his  old,  stiff  fingers.  "  Now  ve  vill  have  one  fine  leetle 
dinner,  my  leetle  lady,"  he  said,  with  a  beaming  smile,  when  he  had 
completed  the  order. 


LADY   JANE.  137 

Lady  Jane  nodded  an  affirmative,  and  while  they  waited  for 
their  dinner  her  bright  eyes  traveled  over  everything;  at  length 
they  rested  on  Mr.  Gex  with  unbounded  admiration,  and  she  could 
not  refrain  from  leaning  forward  and  whispering: 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Gex,  how  nice,  how  lovely  you  look !  Please,  Mr.  Gex, 
please  don't  wear  an  apron  any  more." 

"  Veil,  if  my  leetle  lady  don't  vant  me  to,  veil,  I  von't,"  replied  Gex, 
beaming  with  sudden  ambition  and  pride,  "  and,  perhaps,  I  vill  try 
to  be  one  fine  leetle  gentleman  again,  like  vhen  I  vas  professeur  of 
the  dance." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

AFTER    THE    CARNIVAL 

IT  was  nearly  dark,  and  the  day  had  been  very  long  to  Pepsie, 
sitting  alone  at  her  window,  for  Madelon  must  remain  all  day 
and  until  late  at  night  on  the  Rue  Bourbon.  A  holiday,  and 
especially  Mardi-gras,  was  a  day  of  harvest  for  her,  and  she  never 
neglected  a  chance  to  reap  nickels  and  dimes ;  therefore  Pepsie 
began  to  look  anxiously  for  the  return  of  the  merry  party  in  the 
milk-cart.  She  knew  they  were  not  to  remain  to  see  the  night 
procession ;  at  least,  that  had  not  been  the  intention  of  Tante 
Modeste  when  she  left,'  and  she  could  not  imagine  what  had  de 
tained  them.  And  Tite  Souris, —  ungrateful  creature  !  had  been  told 
to  return  as  soon  as  the  procession  was  over,  in  order  to  get  Pep- 
sie's  dinner.  Owing  to  the  excitement  of  the  morning,  Pepsie  had 
eaten  nothing,  and  now  she  was  very  hungry,  as  well  as  lonesome ; 
and  even  Tony,  tired  of  waiting,  was  hopping  about  restlessly, 
straining  at  his  cord,  and  pecking  the  floor  viciously. 

Madame  Jozain  had  returned  some  time  before,  and  was  even 
then  eating  her  dinner  comfortably.  Pepsie  had  called  across  to 
know  if  she  had  seen  anything  of  the  Paichoux  and  Lady  Jane ; 
but  madame  had  answered  stiffly  that  she  had  been  in  her  friend's 
gallery  all  the  time,  which  was  an  intimation  that  she  had  been 
in  no  position  to  notice  a  milk-cart,  or  its  occupants.  Then  she 
observed  indifferently  that  Madame  Paichoux  had  probably  decided 
to  remain  on  Canal  Street  in  order  to  get  good  positions  for  the 
night  procession. 

138 


LADY   JANE.  139 

Pepsie  comforted  herself  somewhat  with  this  view  of  the  case, 
and  then  began  to  worry  about  the  child's  fast.  She  was  sure 
Tante  Modeste  had  nothing  in  the  cart  for  the  children  to  eat,  and 
on  Mardi-gras  there  was  such  a  rush  that  one  could  hardly  get  into 
a  restaurant,  and  she  doubted  whether  Tante  Modeste  would  try  with 
such  a  crowd  of  young  ones  to  feed.  At  length  when  she  had  thought 
of  every  possible  reason  for  their  remaining  so  late,  and  every  pos 
sible  plan  by  which  they  could  be  fed,  she  began  to  think  of  her 
own  hunger,  and  of  Tite  Souris's  neglect,  and  had  worked  herself  up 
to  a  very  uneviable  state  of  mind,  when  she  saw  her  ungrateful 
handmaid  plunging  across  the  street,  looking  like  a  much-abused 
scarecrow,  the  remnants  of  her  tatters  flying  in  the  wind,  and  her 
long  black  legs,  owing  to  the  unexpected  abbreviation  of  her  skirts, 
longer  and  thinner  than  ever,  while  her  comical  black  face  wore  an 
expression  impossible  to  describe. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Peps',''  she  gasped,  bursting  into  Pepsie's  presence  like 
a  whirlwind,  "  Ma'm  Paichoux  done  sont  me  on  ahead  ter  tell  yer 
how  Miss  Lady  's  done  got  lost." 

"  Lost,  lost?  "  cried  Pepsie,  clasping  her  hands  wildly  and  burst 
ing  into  tears.  "  How,  where  ?  " 

"  Up  yon'er,  on  Cunnul  Street.     We's  can't  find  'er  nowhar." 

"Then  you  must  have  let  go  of  her,"  cried  Pepsie,  while  her  eyes 
flashed  fire.  "  I  told  you  not  to  let  go  of  her." 

"  Oh  laws,  Miss  Peps',  we's  could  n't  holp  it  in  dat  dar  scrim 
mage  ;  peoples  done  bus'  us  right  apart,  an'  Miss  Lady  's  so  littl*  her 
han'  jes  slip  outen  mine.  I'se  tried  ter  hole  on,  but  't  ain't  no  use." 

"  And  where  was  Tiburce  ?     Did  he  let  go  of  her  too  ?  " 

"  He  war  dar,  but  Lor !  he  could  n't  holp  it.  Mars'  Tiburce  could 
n't,  no  more  en  me." 

"  You  Ve  broken  my  heart,  Tite,  and  if  you  don't  go  and  find  her 
I  '11  hate  you  always.  Mind  what  I  say,  I  '11  hate  you  forever," 


140 


LADY   JANE, 


and  Pepsie  thrust  out  her  long  head  and  set  her  teeth  in  a  cruel 
way. 

"  Oh  laws,  honey  !  Oh  laws,  Miss  Peps',  dey  's  all  a-lookin',  dey  's 
gwine  bring  er  back  soon  ;   doan't  git  scart,  dat  chile  's  all  right." 


"'GO   AND   LOOK   FOR    HER;    DON'T   STAND   THERE    GLARING  AT   ME.      GO,   I    SAY!'   AND 
PEPSIE    RAISED    HER    NUTCRACKER   THREATENINGLY." 

"  Go  and  look  for  her ;  go  and  find  her !  Mind  what  I  tell  you ; 
bring  her  back  safe  or  —  "     Here  Pepsie  threw  herself  back  in  her 


LADY   JANE.  141 

chair  and  fairly  writhed.  "  Oh,  oh  !  and  I  must  stay  here  and  not 
do  anything,  and  that  darling  is  lost,  lost !  —  out  in  the  streets  alone, 
and  nearly  dark.  Go,  go  and  look  for  her;  don't  stand  there 
glaring  at  me.  Go,  I  say,"  and  Pepsie  raised  her  nutcracker 
threateningly. 

"  Yes,  Miss  Peps',  yes,  I  '11  bring  'er  back  shore,"  cried  Tite,  dodg 
ing  an  imaginary  blow,  as  she  darted  out,  her  rags  and  tatters  flying 
after  her. 

When  she  had  gone  Pepsie  could  do  nothing  but  strain  her 
eyes  in  the  gathering  darkness,  and  wring  her  hands  and  weep. 
She  saw  the  light  and  the  fire  in  Madame  Jozain's  room,  but  the  door 
was  closed  because  the  evening  was  chilly,  and  the  street  seemed 
deserted.  There  was  no  one  to  speak  to  ;  she  was  alone  in  the  dark 
little  room  with  only  Tony,  who  rustled  his  feathers  in  a  ghostly  sort 
of  way,  and  toned  dismally. 

Presently,  she  heard  the  sound  of  wheels,  and  peering  out  saw 
Tante  Modeste's  milk-cart ;  her  heart  gave  a  great  bound.  How 
foolish  she  was  to  take  on  in  such  a  wild  way  ;  they  had  found  her, 
she  was  there  in  the  cart,  safe  and  sound  ;  but  instead  of  Lady  Jane's 
blithe  little  voice  she  heard  her  Uncle  Paichoux,  and  in  an  instant 
Tante  Modeste  entered  with  a  very  anxious  face. 

"  She  has  n't  come  home,  has  she  ? "  were  Tante  Modeste's  first 
words. 

"Oh,  oh  !"  sobbed  Pepsie,  "then  you  have  n't  brought  her?" 

"  Don't  cry,  child,  don't  cry,  we  '11  find  her  now.  When  I  saw  I 
could  n't  do  anything,  I  took  the  young  ones  home,  and  got  your 
uncle.  I  said,  '  If  I  have  Paichoux,  I  '11  be  able  to  find  her.'  We  're 
going  right  to  the  police.  I  dare  say  they  Ve  found  her,  or  know 
where  she  is." 

"  You  know  I  told  you  — "  moaned  Pepsie,  "  you  know  I  was  afraid 
she  'd  get  lost." 


LADY    JANE. 

"Yes,  yes;  but  I  thought  I  could  trust  Tiburce.  The  boy  will 
never  get  over  it;  he  told  me  the  truth,  thank  Heaven;  he  said  he 
just  let  go  her  hand  for  one  moment,  and  there  was  such  a  crowd. 
If  that  fly-away  of  a  Tite  had  kept  on  the  other  side  it  would  n't 
have  happened,  but  she  ran  off  as  soon  as  they  got  on  the  street." 

"  I  thought  so.     I  '11  pay  her  off,"  said  Pepsie  vindictively. 

"Come,  come,  Modeste,"  called  Paichoux  from  the  door,  "let's 
be  starting." 

"Oh,  uncle!"  cried  Pepsie,  imploringly,  "do  find  Lady  Jane." 

"  Certainly,  child,  certainly,  I  '11  find  her.  I  '11  have  her  back  here 
in  an  hour  or  so.  Don't  cry.  It  's  nothing  for  a  young  one  to  get 
lost  Mardi-gras ;  I  dare  say  there  are  a  dozen  at  the  police  stations 
now,  waiting  for  their  people  to  come  and  get  them." 

Just  at  that  moment  there  was  a  sound  of  voices  without,  and 
Pepsie  exclaimed  :  "  That  's  Lady  Jane.  I  heard  her  speak."  Sure 
enough,  the  sweet,  high-pitched  little  voice  chattering  merrily  could 
be  distinctly  heard  ;  and  at  the  same  instant  Tite  Souris  burst  into  the 
room,  exclaiming: 

"  Her  's  here,  Miss  Peps',  bress  der  Lor' !  I  's  done  found 
her  " ;  and  following  close  was  Lady  Jane,  still  holding  fast  to  little 
Gex. 

"  Oh,  Pepsie  !  Oh,  I  was  lost!  "  she  cried,  springing  into  her  friend's 
arms.  "  I  was  lost,  and  Mr.  Gex  found  me ;  and  I  struck  a  boy  in  the 
face,  and  he  tore  off  my  domino  and  mask,  and  I  did  n't  know  what 
to  do,  when  Mr.  Gex  came  and  kicked  him  into  the  gutter.  Did  n't 
you,  Mr.  Gex?" 

"Just  to  think  of  it!"  cried ,  Tante  Modeste,  embracing  her,  and 
almost  crying  over  her,  while  Paichoux  was  listening  to  the  modest 
account  of  the  rescue,  from  the  ancient  dancing-master. 

"And  I  had  dinner  with  Mr.  Gex,"  cried  Lady  Jane  joyfully; 
"such  a  lovely  dinner  —  ice  cream,  and  grapes — and  cake!" 


LADY   JANE.  143 

"  And  one  leetle  bird,  vith  a  vairy  fine  salad,  my  leetle  lady, — 
vas  n't  it  —  one  vairy  nice  leetle  bird  ?  "  interrupted  Gex,  who  was 
unwilling  to  have  his  fine  dinner  belittled. 

"  Oh,  yes ;  bird,  and  fish,  and  soup,"  enumerated  Lady  Jane,  "  and 
peas,  Pepsie,  little  peas." 

"  Oh,  mon  Dieu !  oh,  leetle  lady!"  cried  Gex,  holding  up  his 
hands  in  horror,  "  you  have  it  vairy  wrong.  It  vas  soup,  and  fish, 
and  bird.  M.  Paichoux,  you  see  the  leetle  lady  does  not  veil 
remember;  and  you  must  not  think  I  can't  order  one  vairy  fine 
dinner." 

"  I  understand,"  said  Paichoux,  laughing.  "  I  Ve  no  doubt,  Gex, 
but  what  you  could  order  a  dinner  fit  for  an  alderman." 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you,  vairy  much,"  returned  Gex,  as  he  bowed 
himself  out  and  went  home  to  dream  of  his  triumphs. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

PAICHOUX    MAKES    A    PURCHASE 

w  T  UST  to  think,"  said   Pepsie  to  her  mother,  the  next  morning, 

"  Madame  Jozain  was  n't  the  least  anxious  last  night  about 

Lady.     I  don't  believe  she  cares  for  the  child,  or  she  'd  never 

be  willing  to  let  her  stay  away  from  her  the  most  of  the  time, 

as  she  does.     She  's  always  fussing  about  her  great,  overgrown  son, 

if  he  's  out  of  her  sight." 

"  And  no  wonder,"  returned  Madelon.  "  Poor  woman,  she  has 
trouble  enough  with  him.  She  keeps  it  to  herself  and  pretends  to 
be  proud  of  him ;  but,  my  dear,  he  's  a  living  disgrace  to  her.  I  often 
hear  him  spoken  of  on  the  Rue  Bourbon ;  he  dresses  fine  and  never 
works.  Where  does  he  get  his  money,  ma  petite?  If  people  are 
poor  and  don't  work  they  must  steal.  They  may  call  it  by  some 
other  name,  but  I  call  it  stealing.  Madame  Jozain  can't  make 
money  enough  in  that  little  shop  to  support  herself  and  keep  that 
boy  in  idleness.  We  must  n't  be  too  hard  on  her.  She  has  trouble 
enough,  I  can  see  it  in  her  face ;  she  looks  worn  out  with  worry. 
And  we  '11  do  all  we  can  for  that  little  darling.  It  's  a  pleasure  ; 
she  's  so  sweet  and  grateful.  I  only  wish  I  could  do  more.  I  'd 
work  my  fingers  to  the  bone  for  you  two,  my  darling." 

ffa&onne  maman"  said  Pepsie,  clinging  to  her  neck,  and  kissing 
her  fondly,  "have  you  thought  of  what  I  asked  you — have  you, 
mama  ?  "  ^ 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  I  have,  I  Ve  thought  of  it  a  great  deal ;  but  I  don't 
see  my  way  clear  quite  yet." 


144 


LADY   JANE.  145 

"  Why,  you  Ve  got  the  money  in  the  bank,  mama  ?  " 

"  I  can't  touch  that  money,  my  dear;  it  's  for  you.  If  anything 
should  happen  to  me,  and  you  were  left  alone." 

"Hush,  hush,  mama;  I  should  n't  need  any  money  then,  for  I 
should  die  too." 

"  No,  my  dear,  not  if  it  was  the  good  God's  will  that  you  should 
live.  I  don't  want  to  spend  that ;  I  want  to  feel  that  you  've  some 
thing.  A  piano  costs  a  great  deal  of  money ;  besides,  what  would 
your  uncle  and  aunt  think  if  I  should  do  such  a  thing  ?  " 

"  They  'd  think  you  did  it  because  /  wanted  you  to,"  returned 
Pepsie  slyly. 

"  That  would  be  a  reason  certainly,"  said  Madelon,  laughing, 
"  and  I  '11  try  to  do  it  after  a  while.  Have  a  little  patience,  dear, 
and  I  think  I  can  manage  it  without  touching  the  money  in  the 
bank." 

"  Oh,  I  hope  you  can,  mama,  because  Mam'selle  Diane  says  Lady 
learns  very  fast,  and  that  she  ought  to  practise.  I  hate  to  have  her 
kept  back  for  the  need  of  a  piano,  and  Madame  Jozain  will  never 
get  one  for  her.  You  know  you  could  sell  it  afterward,  mama,"- —  and 
Pepsie  went  on  to  show,  with  much  excellent  reasoning,  that  Lady 
Jane  could  never  make  a  great  prima  donna  unless  she  had  advan 
tages.  "  It  's  now,  while  her  fingers  are  supple,  that  they  must  be 
trained ;  she  ought  to  practise  two  hours  a  day.  Oh,  I  'd  rather  go 
without  the  money  than  to  have  Lady  kept  back.  Try,  bonne  maman, 
try  to  get  a  piano  very  soon,  won't  you  ?  " 

And  Madelon  promised  to  try,  for  she  was  devoted  to  the  child ; 
but  Pepsie  had  begun  to  think  that  Lady  Jane  was  her  own — her 
very  own,  and,  in  her  generous  affection,  was  willing  to  sacrifice 
everything  for  her  good. 

And  Madelon  and  Pepsie  were  not  the  only  ones  who  planned 
and  hoped  for  the  little  one  with  almost  a  mother's  love  and  interest. 


LADY    JANE. 

From  the  first  day  that  Lady  Jane  smiled  up  into  the  sad,  worn  face 
of  Diane  d'Hautreve,  a  new  life  had  opened  to  that  lonely  woman, 
a  new  hope,  a  new  happiness  brightened  her  dreary  days ;  for  the 
child's  presence  seemed  to  bring  sunshine  and  youth  to  her.  Had  it 
not  been  for  her  mother,  she  would  have  kept  the  gentle  little 
creature  with  her  constantly,  as  the  sweetest  hours  she  knew,  or  had 
known  for  many  a  weary  year,  were  those  she  devoted  to  her  lovely 
little  pupil.  It  was  a  dream  of  delight  to  sit  at  the  tinkling  piano  with 
Lady  Jane  nestled  close  to  her  side,  the  sweet,  liquid  notes  mingling 
with  hers,  as  they  sang  an  old-fashioned  ballad,  or  a  tender  lullaby. 
And  the  child  never  disappointed  her;  she  was  always  docile  and 
thoughtful,  and  so  quiet  and  polite  that  even  Diane's  mother,  cap 
tious  and  querulous  though  she  was,  found  no  cause  for  complaint, 
while  the  toleration  with  which  she  had  at  first  received  Lady  Jane 
was  fast  changing  into  affection.  The  more  they  became  interested 
in  her,  the  more  they  wondered  how  she  could  be  kin  to  such  a 
woman  as  Madame  Jozain ;  for  Mam'selle  Diane  had  been  obliged 
to  show  how  exclusive  she  could  be  in  order  to  keep  madame  where 
she  belonged. 

At  first  Madame  Jozain  had  annoyed  them  greatly  by  trying  to 
intrude  upon  their  seclusion  ;  and  it  had  taken  several  polite,  but 
unmistakable  rebuffs  to  teach  her  that  they  were  d'Hautreves,  and 
that  the  child  would  be  received  gladly  where  the  aunt  must  not 
expect  to  enter. 

Madame  swallowed  her  mortification  and  said  nothing,  but  she 
bided  her  time  to  take  her  revenge.  "/  7/  show  them  before  long 
that  I  know  how  poor  they  are ;  and  that  funny  little  story  I  got 
out  of  Tite  Souris,  about  Mam'selle  Diane  cleaning  her  banquette 
with  a  veil  over  her  face  —  every  one  in  the  neighborhood  shall 
know  it.  Poor,  proud,  old  thing,  she  thought  she  could  insult  me 
and  I  would  n't  resent  it ! " 


LADY   JANE.  147 

And  while  Madame  was  planning  her  little  revenge,  and  rehears 
ing  her  grievances  to  herself,  Madame  d'Hautreve  and  Mam'selle 
Diane  were  wondering  if  something  could  n't  be  done  to  get  the  child 
out  of  the  clutches  of  such  an  aunt. 

"  It  seems  dreadful,"  Mam'selle  Diane  would  say,  sadly,  "to  leave 
her  with  that  woman.  I  can't  think  she  has  any  right  to  her  ;  there  's 
a  mystery  about  it,  and  it  ought  to  be  investigated.  Oh,  mama 
dear,  if  we  had  some  money  I  'd  hire  a  lawyer  to  find  out.  If  she 
really  is  the  child's  next-of-kin,  I  suppose  she  has  a  legal  right  to 
her,  and  that  no  one  could  oblige  her  to  relinquish  that  right ;  but 
one  might  buy  the  child ;  I  think  she  is  just  the  woman  to  be  moved 
by  money.  Oh,  mama,  if  our  claim  had  only  gone  through!  If 
we  'd  only  got  what  we  ought  to  have  had,  I  would  try — if  you  had 
no  objections — to  get  the  child." 

"  Dear,  dear,  Diane,  how  absurd  you  are !  What  would  you  do 
with  her  ?  " 

"Why,  you  could  adopt  her,  mama,  and  I  could  have  the  care 
of  her." 

"  But,  my  child,  that  is  all  romancing.  We  have  no  money,  and 
we  never  shall  have  any.  It  is  useless  to  think  of  that  claim,  it 
will  never  be  considered ;  and  even  if  we  had  money,  it  would  be  a 
great  risk  to  take  a  child  we  know  nothing  of.  I  think  with  you  that 
there  's  some  mystery,  and  I  should  like  to  have  it  looked  into,  yet 
I  don't  think  it  's  worth  while  worrying  about ;  we  have  troubles 
enough  of  our  own." 

"  Oh,  mama,  we  need  not  be  selfish  because  we  are  poor,"  said 
Diane,  gently. 

"  WTe  can't  help  it,  child ;  selfishness  is  one  of  the  results  of  pov 
erty.  It  is  self,  self,  constantly ;  but  you  are  an  exception,  Diane. 
I  will  give  you  the  credit  of  thinking  more  of  others'  interest  than 
of  your  own.  You  show  it  in  everything.  Now,  about  that  bird. 


148  LADY    JANE. 

Madame  Jourdain  should  have  paid  you  for  it,  and  not  thrown  it  on 
your  hands." 

"  Oh,  mama,  she  could  n't  sell  it,"  said  Mam'selle  Diane,  deject 
edly.  "  It  would  n't  be  right  to  expect  her  to  lose  the  price  of  it. 
She  says  it  did  n't  'take'  as  well  as  the  ducks." 

"Well,  she  might  have  thrown  in  the  wool,"  insisted  Madame 
d'Hautreve,  querulously,  "she  might  have  given  the  wool  against 
your  time." 

"  But  she  did  n't  ask  me  to  experiment  with  a  new  model,  mama 
dear.  It  was  n't  her  fault  if  I  did  n't  succeed." 

"You  did  succeed,  Diane.  It  was  perfect;  it  was  most  life-like, 
only  people  have  n't  the  taste  to  recognize  your  talent." 

"  Madame  Jourdain  said  that  her  customers  did  n't  like  the  bird's 
bill,  and  they  thought  the  neck  too  long,"  returned  Mam'selle  Diane, 
humbly. 

"There,  there;  that  shows  how  little  the  best  educated  people 
know  of  ornithology.  It  is  a  species  of  crane ;  the  neck  is  not  out  of 
proportion." 

"They  thought  so,  mama,  and  one  can't  contend  with  people's 
tastes  and  opinions.  I  shall  not  try  anything  new  again.  I  shall 
stick  to  my  ducks  and  canaries." 

"  You  know  I  advised  you  to  do  so  in  the  first  place.  You  were 
too  ambitious,  Diane,  you  were  too  ambitious ! " 

"  Yes ;  you  are  right,  mama,  I  was  too  ambitious ! "  sighed 
Mam'selle  Diane. 

One  morning  in  August,  about  a  year  from  the  time  that 
Madame  Jozain  moved  into  Good  Children  Street,  Tante  Modeste 
was  in  her  dairy,  deep  in  the  mysteries  of  cream-cheese  and  butter, 
when  Paichoux  entered,  and  laying  a  small  parcel  twisted  up  in 
a  piece  of  newspaper  before  her  waited  for  her  to  open  it. 


WHY,   PAPA,   WHERE   IN    THE   WORLD    DID   YOU    GET   THIS?'    SAID    MODESTE." 


LADY   JANE.  151 

"In  a  moment,"  she  said,  smiling  brightly;  "let  me  fill  these 
molds  first,  then  I  '11  wash  my  hands,  and  I  'm  done  for  to-day." 

Paichoux  made  no  reply,  but  walked  about  the  dairy,  peering 
into  the  pans  of  rich  milk,  and  whistling  softly. 

Suddenly,  Tante  Modeste  uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise. 
She  had  opened  the  paper,  and  was  holding  up  a  beautiful  watch 
by  its  exquisitely  wrought  chain. 

"Why,  papa,  where  in  the  world  did  you  get  this?  "  she  asked, 
as  she  turned  it  over  and  over,  and  examined  first  one  side  and  then 
the  other.  "  Blue  enamel,  a  band  of  diamonds  on  the  rim,  a  leaf  in 
diamonds  on  one  side,  a  monogram  on  the  other.  What  are  the  let 
ters? — the  stones  sparkle  so,  I  can  hardly  make  them  out.  J,  yes, 
it  's  a  J,  and  a  C.  Why,  those  are  the  very  initials  on  that  child's 
clothes  !  Paichoux,  where  did  you  get  this  watch,  and  whose  is  it  ?  " 

"Why,  it  's  mine,"  replied  Paichoux,  with  exasperating  coolness. 
He  was  standing  before  Tante  Modeste,  with  his  thumbs  in  his. 
waistcoat  pockets,  whistling  in  his  easy  way.  "  It  's  mine,  and  I 
bought  it." 

"  Bought  it !  Where  did  you  buy  a  watch  like  this,  and  wrapped! 
up  in  newspaper,  too?  Do  tell  me  where  you  got  it,  Paichoux/* 
cried  Tante  Modeste,  very  much  puzzled,  and  very  impatient. 

"  I  bought  it  in  the  Recorder's  Court." 

"In  the  Recorder's  Court?"  echoed  Tante  Modeste,  more  and 
more  puzzled.  "  From  whom  did  you  buy  it?" 

"  From  Raste  Jozain." 

Tante  Modeste  looked  at  her  husband  with  wide  eyes  and 
parted  lips,  and  said  nothing  for  several  seconds  ;  then  she  exclaimed, 
"  I  told  you  so  !  " 

"Told  me  what?"  asked  Paichoux,  with  a  provoking  smile. 

"Why,  why,  that  all  those  things  marked  J.  C.  were  stolen  from 
that  child's  mother ;  and  this  watch  is  a  part  of  the  same  property, 
and  she  never  was  a  Jozain  — " 


I52  LADY    JANE. 

"  Not  so  fast,  Modeste  ;  not  so  fast." 

"Then,  what  was  Raste  Jozain  in  the  Recorder's  Court  for?" 

"  He  was  arrested  on  suspicion,  but  they  could  n't  prove  anything." 

"For  this?"  asked  Xante  Modeste,  looking  at  the  watch. 

"  No,  it  was  another  charge,  but  his  having  such  a  valuable  watch 
went  against  him.  It  seems  like  a  providence,  my  getting  it.  I  just 
happened  to  be  passing  the  Recorder's  Court,  and,  glancing  in,  I  saw 
that  precious  rascal  in  the  dock.  I  knew  him,  but  he  did  n't  know  me. 
So  I  stepped  in  to  see  what  the  scrape  was.  It  seems  that  he  was 
arrested  on  the  suspicion  of  being  one  of  a  gang  who  have  robbed  a 
number  of  jewelry  stores.  They  could  n't  prove  anything  against 
him  on  that  charge ;  but  the  watch  and  chain  puzzled  the  Recorder 
like  the  mischief.  He  asked  Raste  where  he  got  it,  and  he  was  ready 
with  his  answer,  *  It  belonged  to  my  cousin  who  died  some  time 
ago ;  she  left  it  to  my  mother,  and  my  mother  gave  it  to  me." 

"  '  What  was  her  name  ?  '  asked  the  Recorder. 

"  '  Claire  Jozain,'  the  scamp  answered  promptly. 

"  '  But  this  is  J.  C.,'said  the  Recorder,  examining  the  letters  closely. 
*  I  should  certainly  say  that  the  J.  came  first.  What  do  you  think, 
gentlemen  ? '  and  he  handed  the  watch  to  his  clerk  and  some  others ; 
and  they  all  thought  from  the  arrangement  of  the  letters  that  it  was 
J.  C.,  and  while  this  discussion  was  going  on,  the  fellow  stood  there 
smiling  as  impudent  and  cool  as  if  he  was  the  first  gentleman  in  the 
city.  He  's  a  handsome  fellow,  and  well  dressed,  and  the  image  of 
his  father.  Any  one  who  had  ever  seen  Andre  Jozain  would  know 
that  Raste  was  his  son,  and  he  's  in  a  fair  way  to  end  his  days  in 
Andre's  company." 

"  And  they  could  n't  find  out  where  he  got  the  watch?"  interrupted 
Tante  Modeste  impatiently. 

"  No,  they  could  n't  prove  that  it  was  stolen.  However,  the  Re 
corder  gave  him  thirty  days  in  the  parish  prison  as  a  suspicious 
character." 


LADY    JANE.  153 

"  They  ought  not  to  have  let  him  off  so  easily,"  said  Tante 
Modeste  decidedly. 

"  But  you  know  they  could  n't  prove  anything,"  continued  Pai- 
choux,  "  and  the  fellow  looked  blue  at  the  prospect  of  thirty  days. 
I  guess  he  felt  that  he  was  getting  it  pretty  heavy.  However,  he 
put  on  lots  of  brass  and  began  talking  and  laughing  with  some 
flashy-looking  fellows  who  gathered  around  him.  They  saw  the 
watch  was  valuable,  and  that  there  was  a  chance  for  a  bargain,  and 
one  of  them  made  him  an  offer  of  fifty  dollars  for  it.  '  Do  you 
think  I  'm  from  the  West?'  he  asked,  with  a  grin,  and  shoved 
it  back  into  his  pocket ;  '  I  'm  pretty  hard  up,  I  need  the  cash 
badly ;  but  I  can't  give  you  this  ticker,  as  much  as  I  love  you.' 
Then  another  fellow  offered  him  sixty,  and  he  shook  his  head. 
'  No,  no,  that  's  nowhere  near  the  figure.' 

"  '  Let  me  look  at  the  watch,'  I  said,  sauntering  up.  '  If  it  's  a 
good  watch  I  '11  make  you  an  offer.'  I  spoke  as  indifferently  as 
possible,  because  I  did  n't  want  him  to  think  I  was  anxious,  and 
I  was  n't  quite  sure  whether  he  knew  me  or  not.  As  he  handed  me 
the  watch  he  eyed  me  impudently,  but  I  saw  that  he  was  nervous 
and  shaky.  '  It  's  a  good  watch,'  I  said  after  I  examined  it  closely ; 
'  a  very  good  watch,  and  I  '11  give  you  seventy-five.' 

"'No,  you  don't,  old  hayseed;  hand  it  here.'  I  was  so  taken 
aback  at  his  calling  me  hayseed  —  you  see,  Modeste,  I  had  on 
my  blouse,"  and  Paichoux  looked  a  little  guilty  while  referring  to 
his  toilet. 

"  Well,  papa,  have  n't  I  told  you  not  to  go  up-town  in  your 
blouse?"  said  Tante  Modeste  sharply.  "I  should  think  now,  for 
Marie's  sake,  that  you  would  wear  a  coat ;  the  Guiots  all  wear 
coats." 

"  Oh,  never  mind  that.  I  don't.  I  'm  an  honest  man,  and  I  can 
afford  to  wear  a  blouse  anywhere.  I  did  n't  take  any  notice  of  his 


154  LADY    JANE. 

impudence,  but  I  offered  him  a  hundred.  You  see  I  happened  to 
have  the  money  with  me.  I  was  on  my  way  to  pay  Lenotre  for 
those  last  Jerseys  I  bought  from  him,  so  I  took  my  wallet  out  and 
began  counting  the  bills.  That  brought  him  ;  the  fellow  needed  the 
money,  and  he  wanted  to  get  rid  of  the  watch.  If  I  had  n't  thought 
that  there  was  something  crooked  about  it,  my  conscience  would  n't 
have  let  me  take  such  a  valuable  thing  for  such  a  price,  but  I  consid 
ered  the  child.  I  thought  it  might  be  all  the  proof  that  we  would 
ever  have  if  anything  came  up,  and  in  any  case  it  's  money  well 
invested  for  her." 

"  You  did  right  to  buy  it,  Paichoux.  It  's  a  good  deal  of  money 
for  a  watch,  especially  just  now,  when  we  have  to  get  so  much  for 
Marie  ;  but  if  we  can  do  anything  for  that  darling  by  having  it,  I  don't 
mind."  And  Tante  Modeste  sat  for  some  time  looking  intently  at 
the  beautiful,  sparkling  object  that  lay  on  her  white  apron. 

"I  wish  it  could  speak,"  she  said  at  length;  "  I  wish  it  could 
speak." 

"  I  mean  to  make  it  by  and  by,"  returned  Paichoux  decidedly. 

"  But  now,  at  this  moment,  what  a  story  it  could  tell  if  it  had 
a  voice !  Well,  I  'm  glad  we  Ve  got  it  out  of  that  scamp's 
clutches." 

"  So  am  I,"  returned  Paichoux,  opening  the  case  as  he  spoke  and 
showing  Tante  Modeste  something  on  the  inside  of  it.  "  I  can  get 
a  trace  through  this,  or  I  'm  mistaken ;  but  put  it  away  now  in  my 
safe,  and  say  nothing  about  it, —  I  don't  want  even  Madelon  to  know 
that  we  Ve  got  it,  and,  Modeste,  whenever  you  see  that  woman,  be 
on  the  alert  for  something  that  will  give  us  a  clue." 

"  Oh,  Paichoux,  you  don't  know  her.  She  's  as  close  as  the  grave, 
and  too  cunning  to  betray  herself.  I  'm  always  watching  her,  and  I 
mean  to  keep  on ;  but  I  don't  think  it  's  any  use.  I  wish  we  could 
employ  a  detective  to  unravel  the  mystery." 


LADY   JANE.  155 

"  Yes,  yes ;  but  that  would  cost  a  good  deal,  Modeste ;  let  's  wait 
awhile,  something  's  going  to  turn  up  to  put  us  on  the  right  track." 

"  And  in  the  mean  while  the  poor  little  darling  is  in  the  power  of 
that  woman.  The  child  never  complains,  but  my  heart  aches  for 
her.  She  has  changed  this  summer ;  she  looks  thin  and  weak,  and 
that  woman  takes  no  more  care  of  her  than  she  would  of  a  dog.  If 
it  was  n't  for  Madelon  and  Pepsie,  and  Mam'selle  d'Hautreve,  the 
little  creature  would  suffer ;  and  our  good  milk  that  I  send  to  Made- 
Ion  has  helped  her  through  the  hot  weather.  Pepsie  herself  goes 
without,  to  give  it  to  the  child.  If  the  sweet  little  thing  had  n't 
made  friends,  she  would  have  perished." 

"Let  her  come  down  here  and  play  with  our  young  ones; 
there  's  room  enough,"  said  Paichoux  good-naturedly,  "and  she's 
no  more  trouble  than  a  bird  hopping  about." 

"I  wanted  to  have  her,  but  madame  won't  let  her  come;  she  's 
taken  it  in  her  head  to  keep  the  child  shut  up  most  of  the  time. 
Pepsie  and  Mam'selle  Diane  complain  that  they  don't  have  her  as 
often  as  they  'd  like  to.  I  think  she  's  afraid  that  the  child  may 
talk.  You  see  she  's  getting  older,  and  she  may  remember  more 
than  madame  likes  her  to." 

"  Well,"  said  Paichoux  deliberately,  "  I  Ve  made  a  plan,  and  by 
and  by  I  'm  going  to  put  it  in  operation.     Just  keep  quiet  and  wait 
until  I  'm  ready  to  put  my  plan  in  operation." 
And  Xante  Modeste  promised  to  wait. 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

MADAME    JOZAIN     CALLS     UPON     MAM'SELLE     DIANE 

IT  was  somewhere  about  the  time  that  Paichoux  bought  the 
watch  when  Mam'selle  Diane  was  surprised  one  morning  by  a 
visit  from  Madame  Jozain,  who  entered  the  little  green  gate  with 
an  air  of  haughty  severity  and  insolent  patronage  that  was  insuffer 
able;  and  she  had  evidently  come  on  business,  for,  after  the  first 
formalities  had  passed  between  them,  she  drew  a  well-filled  purse 
from  her  pocket  and  asked  in  a  lofty  tone  if  Mam'selle  Diane  had 
her  bill  prepared. 

"  My  bill,  Madame  Jozain?  What  bill?"  said  Mam'selle  Diane, 
looking  at  her  with  cold  surprise.  "I  am  not  aware  that  you  owe  me 
anything." 

"  I  owe  you  for  teaching  Lady  Jane  music;  you  Ve  been  giving 
her  lessons  now  for  some  months,  and  I  'm  sure  you  must  need  your 
money." 

"  Oh,  Madame,"  gasped  Mam'selle  Diane,  "you  are  laboring  under 
a  mistake.  I  never  thought  of  receiving  money  for  the  pleasure  I 
have  had  with  the  child.  I  offered  to  teach  her.  It  was  my  own 
offer.  You  surely  did  not  think  that  I  expected  to  be  paid  ? " 

"  I  certainly  did.  Why  should  you  teach  her  for  nothing  when  I 
am  able  to  pay  ?  "  returned  madame  haughtily,  while  she  fingered 
her  roll  of  notes.  "In  your  circumstances  you  can't  afford  to  throw 
away  your  time,  and  I  'm  quite  willing  to  pay  you  the  usual  price. 
You  're  a  very  good  teacher,  and  I  'm  very  well  satisfied  with  the 

child's  progress." 

156 


LADY   JANE. 


157 


For  a  moment,  Mam'selle  Diane  was  quite  overcome  by  the 
woman's  insolence.  Then,  remembering  that  she  was  a  d'Hautreve, 
she  drew  herself  up,  and  said  calmly  and  without  the  least  hauteur, 
"I  regret,  Madame,  that  you  thought  me  a  teacher  of  music.  I  make 


"MAM'SELLE  DIANE  SAID  CALMLY,  <i  REGRET,  MADAME,  THAT  YOU  THOUGHT  ME  A 

TEACHER   OF    MUSIC.'" 

no  claim  to  any  professional  knowledge,  therefore  I  could  not  take  the 
pay  of  a  teacher.  I  thank  you  very  much,  but  I  am  not  a  teacher." 
"  It  does  n't  matter.  I  insist  on  paying  you."  And  madame  held 
out  a  bank-note  for  such  a  large  amount  that  Mam'selle  Diane's  eyes 
were  fairly  dazzled. 


I58  LADY    JANE. 

"  I  assure  you  it  is  impossible,"  said  Diane  gently.  "  It  is  useless 
to  discuss  the  matter.  Will  you  permit  me  to  open  the  gate  for 
you  ?  " 

"  Very  well,  then,"  exclaimed  madame,  hotly.  "I  sha'n't  allow 
my  niece  to  come  here  again.  I  won't  accept  favors  from  any  one. 
She  shall  have  a  teacher  that  is  n't  too  proud  to  take  pay." 

"  I  hope  you  will  not  deprive  us  of  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Lady 
Jane.  We  are  very  fond  of  her,"  said  Mam'selle  Diane,  almost 
humbly,  while  the  tears  gathered  on  her  eyelashes.  "  Of  course 
you  must  do  as  you  think  best  about  the  lessons." 

11 1  sha'n't  allow  her  to  run  about  the  neighborhood  any  more," 
replied  madame,  tartly;  "she  's  losing  her  pretty  manners.  I  shall 
keep  her  with  me  in  the  future,"  and  with  this  small  parting  thrust 
and  a  curt  good-morning  she  went  out  of  the  little  green  gate,  and 
left  Mam'selle  Diane  to  close  it  behind  her  with  a  very  heavy 
heart. 

The  interview  had  taken  place  on  the  gallery,  and  Madame 
d'Hautreve  had  heard  but  little  from  her  bed.  "Diane,  what  did 
that  woman  want  ?  What  sent  her  here  at  this  hour  ?  "  quavered 
the  old  lady  sharply. 

"  She  came  on  business,  mama,"  replied  Mam'selle  Diane,  brush 
ing  away  a  tear. 

"  Business,  business;   I  hope  you  have  no  business  with  her." 

"  She  pretended  to  think  I  expected  to  be  paid  for  the  lessons  I 
have  given  Lady  Jane." 

Madame  groaned.  "  I  told  you  we  would  regret  opening  our 
doors  to  that  child." 

"  Oh,  mama,  I  don't  regret  it.  I  only  regret  that  I  have  lost  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  her.  Madame  Jozain  will  not  allow  her  to  come 
any  more." 

"  Ungrateful  creature,  to  insult  you  after  your  condescension." 


LADY    JANE.  159 

"  Mama,  she  did  n't  insult  me,"  interrupted  Mam'selle  Diane, 
proudly.  "  Must  I  remind  you  that  I  am  above  her  insolence?" 

"  True,  my  dear,  true,  and  I  hope  you  made  her  feel  that  she  is  a 
Jozain." 

"  I  did  n't  wish  to  be  unkind  to  her,  mama.  Perhaps  she  is  not  so 
wrong  after  all.  Sometimes  I  think  it  would  have  been  better  to 
have  let  our  friends  know  our  real  circumstances.  Then  they  would 
have  helped  me  to  get  pupils,  and  I  could  have  earned  more  teaching 
music  than  I  can  making  penwipers,  and  I  am  sure  it  would  be  more 
respectable  and  more  agreeable." 

"  Oh,  Diane,  you  surprise  me,"  cried  Madame  d'Hautreve,  tremu 
lously.  "  Think  of  it !  a  granddaughter  of  the  Counts  d'Hautreve 
and  d'Orgenois  teaching  the  children  of  grocers  and  bakers  to  play 
the  piano.  No,  no;  I  would  rather  bury  myself  here  and  die  in  pov 
erty  than  disgrace  our  name  in  that  way." 

Mam'selle  Diane  made  no  reply,  and  after  a  few  moments 
madame  turned  on  her  pillow  to  finish  her  morning  nap.  Then  the 
last  of  the  d'Hautreves  went  into  the  little  garden,  and  drawing  on  a 
pair  of  old  gloves  she  dug  and  trimmed  and  trained  her  flowers  for 
some  time,  and  afterwards  gathered  up  the  small  piles  of  seeds  from 
the  white  papers. 

"  Oh,  oh  !  "  she  said  wearily,  seeing  how  few  they  were,  "  even  the 
flowers  refuse  to  seed  this  year." 

After  she  had  finished  her  work  in  the  garden,  she  went  deject 
edly  back  to  the  little  room  where  her  mother  still  slept,  and  opening 
a  drawer  in  her  armoire  she  took  out  a  small  box.  She  sighed  heav 
ily  as  she  raised  the  lid.  Inside  on  a  blue  velvet  lining  lay  a  slender 
bracelet  set  with  turquoises  and  diamonds.  "  It  must  go,"  she  said 
sadly  to  herself.  "  I  have  kept  it  till  the  last.  I  hoped  I  would  n't  be 
obliged  to  part  with  it,  but  I  must.  I  can't  let  poor  mama  know  how 
needy  we  are.  It  's  the  only  thing  I  can  spare  without  telling  her. 


160  LADY    JANE. 

Yes,  I  must  give  it  up.  I  must  ask  Madame  Jourdain  to  dispose  of 
it  for  me."  Then  she  sat  for  a  long  time  looking  at  it  silently,  while 
the  hot  tears  fell  on  the  blue  velvet.  At  last,  with  a  sigh,  she 
bravely  wiped  her  eyes,  and  laid  the  little  box  under  the  ducklings 
in  the  black  basket. 

For  more  than  a  week  Mam'selle  Diane  did  not  see  Lady  Jane, 
and  the  poor  woman's  eyes  had  a  suspicious  look  of  tears,  as  she 
went  about  her  duties,  silent  and  dejected.  Her  only  pleasure  was 
no  longer  a  pleasure ;  she  could  not  go  near  the  piano  for  some  days. 
At  last,  one  evening,  she  sat  down  and  began  to  play  and  sing  a  little 
song  she  had  taught  the  child,  when  suddenly  she  heard,  outside  the 
window,  the  sweet  treble  voice  she  loved  so  well. 

"  It  's  Lady  Jane  ! "  she  cried,  and  springing  up  so  hastily  that 
she  upset  the  piano-stool  she  grappled  with  the  rusty  bolts  of  the 
shutters,  and,  for  the  first  time  in  years,  threw  them  boldly  open,  and 
there  stood  the  child,  hugging  her  bird  to  her  breast,  her  wan  little 
face  lit  up  with  her  sparkling  eyes  and  bright,  winsome  smile. 

Mam'selle  Diane  went  down  on  her  knees,  and  Lady  Jane  clung 
to  her  neck  and  kissed  her  rapturously  over  and  over. 

"  Diane,  Diane,  what  are  you  thinking  of,  to  open  that  shutter  in 
the  face  of  every  one  ? "  said  the  old  lady  feebly. 

But  Mam'selle  Diane  did  not  hear  her  mother;  she  was  in  an 
ecstasy  of  happiness,  with  the  child's  soft  lips  pressed  to  her  faded 
cheek. 

"  Tante  Pauline  says  I  must  n't  come  in,"  whispered  Lady  Jane, 
between  her  kisses,  "  and  I  must  mind  what  she  says." 

"  Yes,  darling,  you  must  obey  her." 

"  I  Ve  been  here  every  day  listening,  and  I  have  n't  heard  you 
sing  before." 

"Dear  child,  I  could  n't  sing;  I  missed  you  so  I  could  n't 
sing." 


LADY   JANE.  l6l 

"  Don't  cry,  Mam'selle  Diane ;  I  love  you  dearly.  Don't  cry,  and 
I  '11  come  every  day  to  the  window.  Tante  Pauline  won't  be  angry 
at  that." 

"  I  don't  know,  my  dear ;   I  'm  afraid  she  will." 

"  Diane,  close  that  window  instantly,"  cried  Madame  d'Hautreve, 
quite  beside  herself.  "  A  pretty  exhibition  you  're  making  before  all 
the  neighbors,  on  your  knees  crying  over  that  child." 

"  Good-by,  darling ;  come  sometimes.  Mama  don't  like  me  to 
open  the  window,  but  I  '11  open  the  gate  and  speak  to  you,"  said 
Diane,  hastily  returning  to  herself  and  the  exigencies  of  her  position. 

"  Forgive  me,  mama,  I  really  could  n't  help  it,  I  was  so  glad  to 
see  the  child,"  and  Mam'selle  Diane  closed  the  window  with  a 
brighter  face  than  she  had  shown  for  several  days. 

"  I  think  you  must  be  insane,  Diane,  I  surely  think  you  must  be, 
to  let  all  these  common  people  know  that  a  blanchisseuse  de  Jin  will 
not  allow  her  child  to  come  into  our  house,  and  that  you  are  obliged 
to  go  on  your  knees  and  reach  out  of  the  window  to  embrace  her. 
Oh,  Diane,  Diane,  for  the  first  time  you  've  forgotten  that  you  're  a 
d'Hautreve!" 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

RASTE    THE    PRODIGAL 

BOUT  this  time,  a  noticeable  change  took  place  in  Madame 
Jozain.  She  did  not  seem  nearly  so  self-satisfied,  nor  so 
agreeable  to  her  customers.  They  remarked  among  them 
selves  that  something  had  certainly  gone  wrong,  for  madame  was 
very  absent-minded  and  rather  cross,  and  was  always  talking  about 
business  being  poor,  and  the  quarter  growing  duller  every  day, 
while  the  neighbors  were  a  set  of  curious  gossips  and  busybodies. 
"  As  soon  as  they  find  out  that  one  has  had  trouble,  they  blacken 
one  all  they  can,"  she  said  bitterly  to  Madame  Fernandez,  who  was 
her  only  intimate  friend. 

She  spoke  cautiously  and  vaguely  of  her  troubles,  for  she  did 
not  know  whether  the  news  of  Raste's  escapade  had  reached  Good 
Children  Street  or  not.  "I  dare  say  they  have  seen  it  in  the  papers," 
she  thought  angrily  to  herself.  "  Locked  up  for  thirty  days,  as  a 
suspicious  character!  If  he  had  listened  to  me,  and  sold  that  watch 
at  first,  he  would  n't  have  got  into  this  trouble.  I  told  him  to  be 
careful,  but  he  was  always  so  headstrong,  and  now,  I  don't  know 
what  may  happen  any  moment.  The  whole  story  may  get  out, 
through  that  watch  being  talked  about  in  the  papers,  and  perhaps 
the  man  that  bought  it  was  a  detective.  Raste  did  n't  even  find  out 
who  bought  it.  I  shall  never  feel  easy  now  until  Raste  is  out  of  the 
way.  As  soon  as  his  thirty  days  are  ended,  I  shall  advise  him  to  leave 
New  Orleans  for  a  while.  I  'm  disgusted  with  him,  to  disgrace  me 
in  this  way,  and  I  don't  want  him  here.  I  can  hardly  make  enough 


162 


LADY    JANE.  163 

to  support  myself  and  that  child.  If  it  was  n't  for  the  money  I  Ve 
hidden  away,  I  should  feel  discouraged;  but  I  Ve  got  that  to  fall  back 
on.  I  'm  thankful  Raste  don't  know  anything  about  it  or  he  'd  get 
it  from  me  in  some  way.  I  'm  glad  I  Ve  got  rid  of  all  those  things ; 
I  'd  be  afraid  to  have  them  by  me  now.  There  's  nothing  of  any 
consequence  left  but  that  silver  jewel-box,  and  I  '11  get  that  off  my 
hands  the  first  time  I  go  out." 

Then  she  thought  of  the  child.  Suppose  some  one  should 
recognize  the  child  ?  She  was  becoming  cowardly.  A  guilty  con 
science  was  an  uncomfortable  companion.  Everything  frightened  her 
and  made  her  suspicious.  Madame  Paichoux  had  asked  some  start 
ling  questions ;  and  besides,  she  did  not  know  what  the  child  might 
tell.  Children  were  so  unreliable.  One  would  think  they  had  forgot 
ten  everything  and  did  not  see  nor  hear ;  then,  suddenly,  they  would 
drop  some  word  that  would  lead  to  wonderful  revelations. 

Lady  Jane  was  an  intelligent,  thoughtful  child,  and  such  people 
as  the  d'Hautreves  could  find  out  many  things  from  her.  Then  she 
congratulated  herself  that  she  had  been  clever  enough  to  get  her 
away  from  Mam'selle  Diane,  and  the  Paichoux,  too.  And  that  cun 
ning  little  hunchback,  Pepsie  ;  and  old  Gex  —  he  was  a  sly  old  villain, 
and  no  doubt  her  enemy,  for  all  he  was  so  affable  and  polite.  Yes, 
she  would  keep  the  child  away  from  them  all  as  much  as  possible. 

Sometimes  she  thought  it  would  be  best  to  move  away  from 
that  quarter  of  the  city  ;  but  then,  her  going  might  excite  suspicion, 
so  she  waited  for  further  developments  with  much  anxiety. 

When  Raste's  thirty  days  were  up  he  came  to  his  mother,  very 
sheepish,  and,  apparently,  very  penitent.  To  her  angry  reproaches, 
he  replied  that  he  had  done  nothing ;  that  there  was  no  crime  in  his 
having  the  watch.  They  did  n't  steal  the  watch  ;  they  did  n't  ask 
the  poor  woman  into  their  house  and  rob  her.  She  came  there  sick, 
and  they  took  care  of  her ;  and  instead  of  turning  her  child  into  the 


1 64  LADY    JANE. 

street,  they  had  treated  her  as  if  she  belonged  to  them.  As  for  the 
watch,  he  had  been  keeping  it  only  until  the  child  was  old  enough  to 
have  it,  or  until  her  relatives  turned  up ;  he  had  never  intended  to 
sell  it  until  he  found  that  it  was  getting  him  into  trouble,  and  th^p 
he  was  obliged  to  get  rid  of  it. 

Madame  listened  to  the  plausible  arguments  of  her  handsome 
scapegrace,  and  thought  that  perhaps,  after  all,  there  was  no  real 
cause  for  anxiety ;  and  when  he  treated  his  thirty  days  with  fine 
scorn,  as  a  mere  trifle,  a  mistake  of  which  no  one  knew,  she  felt 
greatly  comforted. 

"  Respectable  people,"  he  said,  "  never  read  about  such  matters, 
and,  consequently,  none  of  our  friends  will  ever  know  of  it.  It 
won't  happen  again,  for  I  mean  to  cut  loose  from  the  fellows  who 
led  me  into  that  fix.  I  mean  to  go  with  respectable  people.  I 
shall  begin  all  over,  and  earn  a  living  in  an  honest  way." 

Madame  was  delighted  ;  she  never  knew  Raste  to  talk  so  rea 
sonably  and  to  be  so  thoughtful.  After  all,  his  punishment  had  n't  done 
him  any  harm.  He  had  had  time  to  think,  and  these  good  resolves 
were  the  result  of  his  seclusion  from  the  friends  who  had  nearly 
proved  his  ruin.  Therefore,  greatly  relieved  of  her  anxieties,  she 
took  the  prodigal  back  into  her  heart  and  home,  and  cooked  him  an 
excellent  supper,  not  of  a  fatted  calf,  but  of  a  fatted  pig  that  Madame 
Paichoux  had  sent  her  as  a  preliminary  offering  toward  closer 
acquaintance. 

For  several  days  Raste  remained  quietly  at  work  around  the 
house,  assisting  his  mother  in  various  ways,  and  showing  such  a 
helpful  and  kindly  disposition  that  madame  was  more  than  ever 
enchanted  with  him.  She  even  went  so  far  as  to  propose  that  they 
should  form  a  partnership  and  extend  their  business. 

"  My  credit  is  good,"  said  madame,  proudly ;  "  I  can  buy  a  larger 
stock,  and  we  might  hire  the  store  on  the  corner,  and  add  a  grocery 
department,  by  and  by." 


LADY   JANE.  165 

"But  the  capital?  we  have  n't  the  capital,"  returned  Raste 
doubtfully. 

"  Oh,  I  '11  provide  the  capital,  or  the  credit,  which  is  just  as 
good,"  replied  madame,  with  the  air  of  a  millionaire. 

'  Well,"  said  Raste,  "you  go  out  among  the  merchants  and  see 
what  you  can  do,  and  I  '11  stay  here  and  wait  on  the  customers. 
There  's  nothing  like  getting  used  to  it,  you  know.  But  send  that 
young  one  over  to  the  '  Countess,'  or  to  some  of  her  swell  friends. 
I  don't  want  to  be  bothered  with  her  everlasting  questions.  Did 
you  ever  see  such  a  little  monkey,  sitting  up  holding  that  long- 
legged  bird,  and  asking  a  fellow  a  lot  of  hard  questions,  as  serious 
as  old  Father  Ducros  himself?  By  the  way,  I  saw  Father  Ducros; 
he  's  just  back  from  Cuba.  I  met  him  yesterday,  and  he  asked  me 
why  you  did  n't  come  to  church." 

Madame  went  out  to  see  about  the  new  venture  with  Father 
Ducros's  name  ringing  in  her  ears,  and  was  absent  for  several  hours. 
When  she  returned  she  found  the  house  closed  and  Raste  gone. 

In  a  moment  Lady  Jane  came  running  with  the  key.  Mr.  Raste 
had  brought  it  to  her,  and  had  told  her  that  he  was  tired  tending 
shop,  and  was  going  for  a  walk. 

Madame  smiled,  and  said  as  she  took  the  key : 
"  I  thought  so ;  I  thought  he  'd  get  tired  of  it,  but  I  can't  expect 
him  to  keep  closely  to  business  just  at  first." 

She  took  off  her  bonnet  and  veil,  and  put  them  away ;  then 
went  limping  about  the  room,  putting  it  in  order.  From  time  to 
time  she  smiled.  She  had  met  Madame  Paichoux  and  Marie  in 
the  Bon  Marche  on  Rue  Royale,  and  they  had  been  very  agreeable. 
Madame  Paichoux  had  even  invited  her  to  come  and  dine  with 
them,  to  meet  Marie's  fiance.  At  last  they  were  beginning  to  see 
that  she  was  worthy  of  some  attention,  she  thought. 

Now,  if  Raste  would  only  behave  himself,  they  could  do  very 
well.    With  the  ready  money  she  had  hidden  away  and  by  using 


1 66 


LADY   JANE. 


her  credit  she  could  buy  a  large  stock  of  goods.  She  would  have 
more  shelves  put  up,  and  a  counter,  and  a  fine  show-case  in  the 
window ;  and  there  was  the  store  on  the  corner  which  Raste  could 


"STAGGERING   TO    HER   BED,   SHE   SAT   DOWN   ON   THE   EDGE   AND   READ 
THE  LARGE  CHARACTERS." 

fit  up  as  a  grocery.      Suddenly  she  remembered  that  her  rent  was 
due,  and  that  it  was  about  time  for  her  landlord's  visit.    She  took 


LADY   JANE.  167 

out  her  pocket  book  and  counted  its  contents.  She  had  been 
rather  extravagant  at  the  Bon  Marche,  to  impress  Madame  Pai- 
choux,  and  had  spent  far  more  than  she  intended.  She  found  that 
she  lacked  a  few  dollars  of  the  amount  due  for  rent. 

"  I  must  borrow  it  from  the  private  bank,"  she  said  jocosely,  as 
she  unlocked  her  bureau. 

With  the  peculiar  slyness  of  such  people,  she  thought  her  hoard 
safer  when  not  too  securely  concealed.  Therefore  she  had  folded  up 
the  whole  of  her  year's  savings,  with  the  amount  taken  from  Lady 
Jane's  mother,  inside  of  a  pair  of  partly  worn  gloves,  which  were 
thrown  carelessly  among  her  other  clothing  in  the  drawer.  It  was 
true  she  always  kept  her  bureau  locked,  and  the  key  was  hidden, 
and  she  seldom  left  her  house  alone.  But  even  if  any  one  should 
break  it  open,  she  thought  they  would  never  think  of  unrolling  those 
old  gloves. 

When  she  opened  the  bureau  it  seemed  very  disorderly.  "  I 
did  n't  surely  leave  my  things  in  such  confusion,"  she  said,  nervously 
clutching  at  the  gloves,  which  were  startlingly  conspicuous.  With 
trembling  hands  and  beating  heart  she  unfolded  them,  but  instead  of 
the  roll  of  notes  only  a  slip  of  paper  was  found. 

The  gloves  dropped  from  her  nerveless  fingers,  and,  staggering 
to  her  bed,  she  sat  down  on  the  edge  and  read  the  large  characters, 
which  were  only  too  familiar  and  distinct,  although  they  danced  and 
wavered  before  her  eyes : 

DEAR  MAMA  : 

I  've  decided  not  to  go  into  partnership  with  you,  so  I  '11  take  the  capital  and  you 
can  keep  the  credit.  The  next  time  that  you  secrete  from  your  dutiful  son  money  that 
you  have  no  right  to,  don't  hide  it  in  your  old  gloves.  It  is  n't  safe.  I  'm  going  away 
on  a  little  trip.  I  need  a  change  after  my  close  application  to  business.  By  the  way, 
you  can  tell  your  inquisitive  neighbors  that  I  've  gone  out  to  my  uncle's  ranch  in  Texas. 
Your  affectionate  and  devoted  son, 

ADRASTE  JOZAIN. 


<*r 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE     JEWEL-BOX 

THE  next  day  after  Raste's  sudden  departure,  Madame  Jozain 
sat  in  her  doorway  looking  very  old  and  worn ;    her  face  was 
of  a  settled  pallor,  and  her  eyes  had  a  dazed,  bewildered  ex 
pression,  as  if  she  had  received  a  heavy  blow  that  had  left  her  numb 
and  stupid.      At  times  she  put  her  hand  to  her  head  and  muttered, 
"  Who  would  have  thought  it  ?     Who  would  have  thought  it  ?      His 
mother,  his  own  mother,  and  I  Ve  always  been  so  good  to  him." 

Suddenly  she  seemed  to  have  lost  her  interest  in  her  business, 
her  customers,  and  even  her  domestic  affairs.  Her  little  store  was 
more  untidy  than  any  one  had  ever  seen  it.  When  a  neighbor 
entered  to  buy  a  trifle,  or  to  gossip  for  a  few  moments,  madame 
made  an  effort  to  appear  cheerful  and  chatty,  but  that  it  was  an 
effort  was  evident  to  all.  At  last  some  one  asked  if  she  were  ill. 

"  Well,  not  exactly,"  she  answered  uneasily,  "  but  I  might  as 
well  be.  The  fact  is  I  'm  fretting  about  that  boy  of  mine  ;  he  took 
it  in  his  head  yesterday  to  go  away  to  his  uncle's  ranch.  I  miss  him 
very  much.  I  can't  get  along  without  him,  and  I  should  n't  wonder 
if  I  should  go  too." 

When  Pepsie  asked  what  was  the  matter  with  "  Tante  Pauline," 
Lady  Jane  answered,  as  she  had  been  instructed,  that  Tante  Pauline 
had  headaches,  because  Mr.  Raste  had  gone  away  and  was  n't 
coming  home  for  a  long  time. 

"  Madame  Jozain  is  fretting  about  her  son's  going  away," 
observed  Madame  Fernandez  to  her  husband,  looking  across  the 

168 


LADY   JANE.  169 

street.  "  She  's  been  sitting  there  all  the  morning  so  lonesome  and 
miserable  that  I  'm  sorry  for  her.  But  there  's  some  one  coming 
to  see  her  now.  A  stranger,  and  so  well-dressed.  I  wonder  who  it 
can  be." 

The  new-comer  was  a  stranger  to  Madame  Fernandez,  but 
Madame  Jozain  welcomed  her  as  an  old  friend  ;  she  sprang  up  with 
sudden  animation  and  shook  hands  warmly. 

"  Why,  Madame  Hortense,"  she  exclaimed,  "what  chance  brings 
you  to  my  little  place  ?  " 

"A  happy  chance  for  you,"  replied  Madame  Hortense,  laughing. 
"  I  Ve  come  to  bring  you  money.  I  Ve  sold  the  little  jewel-case  you 
left  with  me  the  other  day,  and  sold  it  very  well,  too." 

"  Now,  did  you?  How  good  of  you,  my  dear  !  I  'm  so  glad  — 
for  the  child's  sake." 

"  Would  you  believe  that  I  got  twenty-five  dollars  for  it  ?  You 
know  you  said  I  might  sell  it  for  ten  ;  but  I  got  twenty-five,  and  I 
think  I  could  have  sold  it  for  more,  easily.  It  is  solid  silver  and  an 
exquisite  thing." 

"  Yes,  it  was  of  the  best  workmanship,"  sighed  madame. 

"  But  I  must  tell  you  how  I  happened  to  sell  it  for  such  a  high 
price.  It 's  very  strange,  and  perhaps  you  can  throw  some  light  on 
the  matter.  One  of  my  best  customers  happened  to  come  in  last 
evening — Mrs.  Lanier,  of  Jackson  Street.  You  know  Lanier,  the 
banker.  They  are  very  rich  people.  She  was  looking  over  the 
things  in  my  show-case,  when  she  suddenly  exclaimed  as  if  sur 
prised  : 

"  Why,  Madame  Hortense,  where  did  you  get  this  ?  "  I  turned 
around,  and  she  had  the  little  jewel-box  in  her  hand,  examining  it 
closely,  and  I  saw  that  she  was  quite  pale  and  excited. 

"  Of  course  I  told  her  all  I  knew  about  it ;  that  a  friend  had 
given  it  to  me  to  sell,  and  so  on.  But  she  interrupted  me  by 


I  70  LADY   JANE. 

asking  where  my  friend  got  it,  and  all  sorts  of  questions  ;  and  all  the 
while,  she  was  looking  at  it  as  if  she  could  n't  imagine  how  it  got 
there.  I  could  only  tell  her  that  you  gave  it  to  me.  Then  she 
asked  other  questions,  so  excitedly  that  I  could  n't  help  showing 
my  surprise.  But  I  could  n't  give  her  the  information  she  wanted, 
so  I  wrote  your  name  and  address  for  her,  and  told  her  to  come 
and  see  you,  and  that  you  would  be  able  to  tell  her  all  about  it." 

During  Madame  Hortense's  hasty  and  rather  confused  narrative 
Madame  Jozain  turned  an  ashy  white ;  and  her  eyes  took  on  a  hunted 
expression,  while  she  followed  with  a  set,  ghastly  smile  every  word 
of  her  friend's  story. 

At  length  she  found  strength  and  composure  to  say : 

"  Why,  no  wonder  you  were  surprised.  Did  n't  she  tell  you  why 
she  wanted  to  know  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  she  saw  that  I  was  very  much  puzzled,  for  after  look 
ing  at  it  sadly  for  some  time,  she  said  that  it  was  a  mystery  how  it 
came  there ;  that  she  had  given  that  little  casket  to  a  schoolmate 
ten  years  before,  while  at  school  in  New  York ;  that  she  had  had  it 
made  especially  for  her,  and  that  her  friend's  initials,  J.  C.,  were 
on  it." 

"  Dear,  dear,  only  think !  Some  old  schoolmate,  I  suppose,"  said 
Madame  Jozain  hastily. 

"  Then  she  asked  me  if  I  would  sell  her  the  little  box ;  and  I  said 
certainly  I  would,  that  it  was  put  there  to  sell.  Seeing  how  anxious 
she  was  to  get  it,  I  thought  I  would  put  the  price  at  twenty-five 
dollars,  although  I  did  n't  much  think  she  'd  give  it.  But  she  never 
said  a  word  about  the  price ;  she  paid  it  in  a  dazed  way,  took  your 
address  that  I  'd  written  for  her,  and  went  out,  carrying  the  little 
casket  with  her.  I  suppose  she  '11  be  here  to-day  or  to-morrow 
to  see  you;  and  so  I  thought  I  'd  hurry  down  and  tell  you  all 
about  it." 


LADY   JANE.  1 71 

"  And  your  commission  ? "  said  Madame  Jozain,  with  a  visible 
effort,  as  the  milliner  laid  the  money  on  the  table. 

"  Oh,  par  exemple,  Madame  Jozain!  As  if  I  would!  No,  no; 
we're  too  old  friends.  I  cannot  take  pay  for  doing  you  a  little  favor. 
And  besides,  I  'm  glad  to  do  it  for  the  dear  child.  She  must  be  a 
great  anxiety  to  you." 

"  She  is!"  returned  madame,  with  a  heavy  sigh,  "but  she  has 
some  property  in  Texas,  I  believe.  My  son  has  just  gone  there, 
and  I  'm  thinking  of  going  too.  I  'm  very  lonely  here." 

"  Ah !  "  said  Madame  Hortense,  surprised.  "Why,  you  are  so 
well  placed  here.  Shall  you  go  soon  ? " 

"  Before  very  long,"  replied  madame,  who  did  not  care  to  be 
more  definite. 

"  Well,  come  and  see  me  before  you  go." 

Madame  Hortense  drew  down  her  veil,  and  rose  to  leave. 
"  I  'm  sorry  I  can't  stay  longer  to  chat  with  you ;  I  'm  busy,  very 
busy.  Now,  mind,  be  sure  to  come  and  say  good-by,"  and  with 
a  cordial  au  revoir  the  little  milliner  hurried  down  the  steps  and  out 
of  sight  around  the  corner. 

For  some  time  after  her  visitor  had  gone,  Madame  Jozain  stood 
quite  still  in  the  middle  of  her  little  shop,  with  her  hands  pressed  to 
her  head  and  her  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy.  At  length  she  muttered  to 
herself:  "  She  '11  come  here  ;  yes,  she  '11  come  here  !  I  can't  see  her ; 
I  can't  tell  her  where  I  got  that  box.  I  must  get  away  at  once.  I 
must  go  out  and  find  another  place.  There  '11  be  no  more  peace  on 
earth  for  me  !  My  punishment  's  begun  !  " 

Then  madame  hurriedly  put  on  her  best  gown  and  bonnet,  and 
calling  across  to  Lady  Jane,  who  was  with  Pepsie,  she  said  she  was 
going  out  on  business,  and  that  she  might  not  be  back  for  some 
time. 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

THE     FLIGHT 

LTE  that  same  afternoon,  Madame  Jozain  was  limping  slowly 
and  wearily  through  a  narrow  street  at  the  other  end  of  the 
city,  miles  away  from  Good  Children  Street,  when  she  saw  an 
old  negro  sitting   on  a  furniture-wagon  to  which  two  mules  were 
harnessed. 

"  Is  that  you,  Pete  ?  "  she  asked,  stopping  and  looking  at  him. 

"  Why,  law,  yes,  it 's  me,  Miss  Pauline,  an'  I  is  mighty  glad  ter  see 
yer,"  said  the  old  man,  climbing  down. 

"  And  I  Jm  glad  to  find  you,  Pete.    I  see  you  Ve  got  a  wagon.    Is 
it  yours  ? " 

"  Well,  't  ain't  edzectly  mine,  Miss  Pauline.     I  is  hired  it.     But  I 
is  a-drivin'  it." 

"  I  was  just  looking  for  some  one  to  move  me  to-night,  Pete." 

"Ter-night,  Miss  Pauline?      Why,  we  does  n't  often  work  a'ter 
sundown,  an'  it  's  mos'  dat  now." 

"  What  do  you  charge  for  a  load,  Pete,  when  you  move  furniture  ?  " 

"  I  mos'  gen'ly  charges  two  dollars  a  load  —  when  it  ain't  too  fur, 
Miss  Pauline,"  he  answered  slowly. 

"  Well  it  is  far,  Pete ;  it  is  from  Good  Children  Street." 

"  Oh,  Miss  Pauline,  I  can't  do  dat  dar  ter-night.    My  mules  is  too 
tired  for  dat." 

Madame  stood  still  and  thought  for  a  moment. 

''See  here,   Pete,"  she  said  at  length  in  a  tone  of  decision;  "1 
want  you  to  remember  that  you  belonged  to  our  family  once,  and 


172 


\   \ 


MADAME   JOZAIN    BARGAINS    FOR    HER    MOVING. 


LADY    JANE.  I  75 

I  want  you  to  listen  to  me,  and  do  what  I  tell  you.  You  're  to  ask 
no  questions,  nor  answer  none;  mind  that!  You  're  to  keep  your 
tongue  still.  Take  your  mules  out  now,  and  give  them  a  good  feed, 
and  let  them  rest  awhile.  Then  be  at  my  house  by  ten  this  evening. 
That  will  be  soon  enough,  for  I  've  got  to  pack.  If  you  '11  move  me 
quietly,  and  without  any  fuss,  I  '11  give  you  ten  dollars  for  the  load." 

"  Ten  dollars,  Miss  Pauline  ?  "  and  the  old  darky  grinned.  "Bress 
yer,  miss,  I  is  a  mind  ter  try  it  —  but  it  's  a  mighty  long  road  ! " 

"  You  Ve  got  plenty  of  time  ;  you  need  n't  hurry.  Bring  a  man 
to  help,  and  leave  your  wagon  in  the  side  street.  I  want  the  things 
taken  out  the  back  way,  and  no  noise.  Mind  what  I  say,  no  noise" 

"  All  right,  Miss  Pauline,  I  '11  be  dar  shore.  An'  yer  '11  gib  me  ten 
dollars  ? " 

"  Yes,  ten  dollars,"  replied  madame,  as  she  limped  away  to  take 
the  street-car. 

Some  of  Madame  Jozain's  neighbors  remembered  afterward  that 
they  slept  badly  that  night  —  had  uneasy  dreams  and  heard  mys 
terious  noises;  but  as  there  was  a  thunder-storm  about  daybreak, 
they  had  concluded  that  it  was  the  electricity  in  the  air  which  caused 
their  restlessness.  However,  Pepsie  afterward  insisted  that  she  had 
heard  Lady  Jane  cry  out,  and  call  "  Pepsie !  "  as  if  in  great  dis 
tress  or  fear,  and  that  about  the  same  time  there  were  sounds  of 
hushed  voices,  rumbling  of  wheels,  and  other  mysterious  noises..  But 
her  mother  had  told  her  she  was  dreaming. 

So  upset  was  Pepsie  by  the  night's  experience  that  she  looked 
quite  pale  and  ill  as  she  sat  by  her  window  next  morning,  waiting  for 
Madame  Jozain  to  open  the  shutters  and  doors. 

How  strange !  It  was  eight  o'clock,  and  still  no  sign  of  life  in 
the  house  opposite!  The  milkman  had  rung  his  bell  in  vain;  the 
brick-dust  vender  had  set  his  bucket  of  powdered  brick  on  the  very 
steps,  and  shrieked  his  discordant  notes  close  to  the  door ;  the 


176  LADY   JANE. 

clothes-pole  man  had  sung  his  dismal  song,  and  the  snap-bean 
woman  had  chanted  her  three  syllables,  not  unmusically,  and  yet  no 
one  appeared  to  open  the  door  of  Madame  Jozain's  house. 

At  last  Pepsie  could  endure  her  suspense  no  longer. 
"  You  go  and  see   what  is  the    matter,"  she  said  to  her  little 
handmaid. 

So  Tite  zigzagged  across  the  street,  flew  up  the  steps,  and 
pounded  vigorously  on  the  door ;  then  she  tried  the  shutters  and  the 
gate,  and  finally  even  climbed  the  fence,  and  peeped  in  at  the  back 
windows.  In  a  trice  she  was  back,  gasping  and  wild-eyed  : 

"  Bress  yer,  Miss  Peps'.  Wat  I  done  tol'  yer  ?  Dem's  all 
gone.  Ain't  a  stick  or  nofin'  in  dat  dar  house  !  Jes'  ez  empty  ez 
a  gourd!" 

At  first  Pepsie  would  not  believe  the  dreadful  news  ;  but  finally, 
when  she  was  convinced  that  madame  had  fled  in  the  night  and 
taken  Lady  Jane  with  her,  she  sank  into  the  very  depths  of  woe  and 
refused  to  be  comforted. 

Then  Paichoux  and  Tante  Modeste  were  called  into  a  family 
council,  and  Paichoux  did  his  very  best  to  solve  the  mystery.  But 
all  he  could  learn  was  from  madame's  landlord,  who  said  that 
Madame  Jozain  had  paid  her  rent  and  given  up  her  key,  saying  that 
she  had  decided,  very  suddenly,  to  follow  her  son.  This  was  all 
the  information  the  landlord  could  give,  and  Paichoux  returned  de 
jectedly  with  this  meager  result. 

"  I  had  my  plans,"  he  said,  "  and  I  was  waiting  for  the  right 
moment  to  put  them  in  operation.  Now,  the  child  has  disappeared, 
and  I  can  do  nothing." 

The  next  day  Pepsie,  sitting  sorrowfully  at  her  window,  trying 
to  find  consolation  in  a  game  of  solitaire,  saw  a  private  carriage 
drive  up  to  the  empty  house  and  wait,  while  the  servant  made 
inquiries  for  Madame  Jozain. 


LADY   JANE.  1 77 

"  Madame  Jozain  did  live  there,"  said  M.  Fernandez  politely, 
"  but  she  went  away  between  two  days,  and  we  know  nothing  at  all 
about  her.  There  was  something  strange  about  it,  or  she  never 
would  have  left  without  telling  her  friends  good-by,  and  leaving 
some  future  address." 

The  servant  imparted  this  scanty  information  to  the  lady  in  the 
carriage,  who  drove  away  looking  greatly  disappointed. 

The    arrival    of  this    elegant   visitor   directly    following   upon 
madame's    flight    furnished    a   subject  for    romantic    conjecture. 

"I  should  n't  wonder,"  said  Pepsie,  "if  that  was  Lady's  mama, 
who  has  come  back  after  all !  Oh,  how  dreadful  that  she  was  n't 
here  to  see  her  ! "  and  then  poor  Pepsie  cried,  and  would  not  be 
consoled. 


CHAPTER   XXVII 

THE    LITTLE    STREET    SINGER 

IT  was  Christmas  Eve,  and  very  nearly  dark,  when  Mrs.  Lanier, 
driving  up  St.  Charles  Avenue  in  her  comfortable  carriage  quite 
filled  with  costly  presents  for  her  children,  noticed  a  forlorn  little 
figure,  standing  alone  at  a  street  corner.  There  was  something 
about  the  sorrowful  looking  little  creature  that  moved  her  strangely, 
for  she  turned  and  watched  it  as  long  as  she  could  discern  the  child's 
face  in  the  gathering  twilight. 

It  was  a  little  girl,  thinly  clad  in  a  soiled  and  torn  white  frock ; 
her  black  stockings  were  full  of  holes,  and  her  shoes  so  worn  that 
the  tiny  white  toes  were  visible  through  the  rents.  She  hugged  a 
thin,  faded  shawl  around  her  shoulders,  and  her  yellow  hair  fell  in 
matted,  tangled  strands  below  her  waist ;  her  small  face  was  pale  and 
pinched,  and  had  a  woe-begone  look  that  would  melt  the  hardest 
heart.  Although  she  was  soiled  and  ragged,  she  did  not  look  like 
a  common  child,  and  it  was  that  indefinable  something  in  her 
appearance  that  attracted  Mrs.  Lanier's  attention,  for  she  thought, 
as  the  carriage  whirled  by  and  left  the  child  far  behind,  "  Poor  little 
thing !  she  did  n't  look  like  a  street  beggar.  I  wish  I  had  stopped 
and  spoken  to  her  !  " 

It  was  Lady  Jane,  and  her  descent  in  the  scale  of  misery  had 
been  rapid  indeed. 

Since  that  night,  some  four  months  before,  when  Madame 
Jozain  had  awakened  her  rudely  and  told  her  she  must  come  away, 
she  had  lived  in  a  sort  of  wretched  stupor.  It  was  true  she  had 


LADY   JANE.  179 

resisted  at  first,  and  had  cried  desperately  for  Pepsie,  for  Mam'selle 
Diane,  for  Gex  —  but  all  in  vain  ;  Madame  had  scolded  and  threat 
ened  and  frightened  her  into  submission. 

That  terrible  midnight  ride  in  the  wagon,  with  the  piled-up 
furniture,  the  two  black  drivers,  who  seemed  to  the  child's  distorted 
imagination  two  frightful  demons,  madame  angry,  and  at  times 
violent  if  she  complained  or  cried,  and  the  frightful  threats  and  cruel 
hints  of  a  more  dreadful  fate,  had  so  crushed  and  appalled  the  child 
that  she  scarcely  dared  open  her  pale  little  lips  either  to  protest  or 
plead. 

Then  the  pitiful  change  in  her  life,  from  loving  care  and  pleas 
ant  companionship  to  utter  squalid  misery  and  neglect.  She  had 
been  suddenly  taken  from  comparative  comfort  and  plunged  into  the 
most  cruel  poverty.  Good  Children  Street  had  been  a  paradise 
compared  to  the  narrow,  dirty  lane,  on  the  outskirts  of  the  city,  where 
madame  had  hidden  herself;  for  the  wretched  woman,  in  her  fear  and 
humiliation,  seemed  to  have  lost  every  vestige  of  ambition,  and  to 
have  sunk  without  the  least  effort  to  save  herself,  to  a  level  with 
those  around  her. 

Madame  had  taken  a  terrible  cold  in  her  hurried  flight,  and  it 
had  settled  in  her  lame  hip;  therefore  she  was  obliged  to  lie  in  her 
bed  most  of  the  time,  and  the  little  money  she  had  was  soon  spent. 
Hunger  was  staring  her  in  the  face,  and  the  cold  autumn  winds 
chilled  her  to  the  marrow.  She  had  been  poor  and  in  many  bitter 
straits,  but  never  before  like  this.  Now  she  dared  not  let  any  one 
know  of  her  whereabouts,  and  for  that  reason  the  few  friends  that  she 
still  had  could  not  help  her.  She  was  ill  and  suffering,  and  alone  in 
her  misery.  Her  son  had  robbed  and  deserted  her,  and  left  her  to 
her  punishment,  and,  for  all  she  knew,  she  must  die  of  starvation. 
Through  the  aid  of  the  negro  Pete,  she  had  parted  with  nearly 
everything  of  value  that  she  had,  and,  to  crown  her  cruelty  and 


l8o  LADY    JANE. 

Lady  Jane's  misery,  one  day  when  the  child  was  absent  on  a 
begging  expedition  she  sold  the  blue  heron  to  an  Italian  for 
two  dollars. 

The  bird  was  the  only  comfort  the  unhappy  little  creature  had, 
the  only  link  between  the  past  and  the  miserable  present,  and  when 
she  returned  to  her  squalid  home  and  found  her  only  treasure  gone, 
her  grief  was  so  wild  and  uncontrollable  that  madame  feared  for  her 
life.  Therefore,  in  order  to  quiet  the  child,  she  said  the  bird  had 
broken  his  string  and  strayed  away. 

After  this,  the  child  spent  her  days  wandering  about  searching 
for  Tony. 

When  madame  first  sent  her  out  into  the  street  to  sing  and  beg, 
she  went  without  a  protest,  so  perfect  was  her  habit  of  obedience, 
and  so  great  her  anxiety  to  please  and  conciliate  her  cruel  tyrant. 
For,  since  the  night  when  madame  fled  from  Good  Children  Street, 
she  had  thrown  off  all  pretenses  of  affection  for  the  hapless  little  one, 
whom  she  considered  the  cause  of  all  her  misfortunes. 

"  She  has  made  trouble  enough  for  me,"  she  would  say  bitterly, 
in  her  hours  of  silent  communion  with  her  own  conscience.  "  If  it 
had  n't  been  for  her  mother  coming  to  me,  Raste  would  n't  have  had 
that  watch  and  would  n't  have  got  locked  up  for  thirty  days.  After 
that  disgrace,  he  could  n't  stay  here,  and  that  was  the  cause  of  his 
taking  my  money  and  running  off.  Yes,  all  my  trouble  has  come 
through  her  in  one  way  or  another,  and  now  she  must  sing  and  beg, 
or  she  '11  have  to  starve/' 

Before  madame  sent  her  out,  she  gave  Lady  Jane  instructions  in 
the  most  imperative  manner.  "  She  must  never  on  any  account 
speak  of  Good  Children  Street,  of  Madelon  or  Pepsie,  of  the  d'Haut- 
reves,  of  Gex,  or  the  Paichoux,  or  of  any  one  she  had  ever  known 
there.  She  must  not  talk  with  people,  and,  above  all,  she  must 
never  tell  her  name,  nor  where  she  lived.  She  must  only  sing  and 


LADY   JANE.  l8l 

hold  out  her  hand.     Sometimes  she  might  cry  if  she  wanted  to,  but 
she  must  never  laugh." 

These  instructions  the  child  followed  to  the  letter,  with  the 
exception  of  one.  She  never  cried,  for  although  her  little  heart  was 
breaking  she  was  too  proud  to  shed  tears. 

It  was  astonishing  how  many  nickels  she  picked  up.  Sometimes 
she  would  come  home  with  her  little  pocket  quite  heavy,  for  her  won 
derful  voice,  so  sweet  and  so  pathetic,  as  well  as  her  sad  face  and 
wistful  eyes,  touched  many  a  heart,  even  among  the  coarsest  and  rud 
est,  and  madame  might  have  reaped  quite  a  harvest  if  she  had  not 
been  so  avaricious  as  to  sell  Tony  for  two  dollars.  When  she  did 
that  she  killed  her  goose  that  laid  golden  eggs,  for  after  the  loss  of 
her  pet  the  child  could  not  sing;  her  little  heart  was  too  heavy,  and 
the  unshed  tears  choked  her  and  drowned  her  voice  in  quivering  sobs. 

The  moment  she  was  out  of  Tante  Pauline's  sight,  instead  of 
gathering  nickels,  she  was  wandering  around  aimlessly,  searching 
and  asking  for  the  blue  heron,  and  at  night,  when  she  returned  with 
an  empty  pocket,  she  shivered  and  cowered  into  a  corner  for  fear 
of  madame's  anger. 

One  morning  it  was  very  cold ;  she  had  had  no  breakfast,  and 
she  felt  tired  and  ill,  and  when  madame  told  her  to  go  out  and  not  to 
come  back  without  some  money,  she  fell  to  crying  piteously,  and  for 
the  first  time  begged  and  implored  to  stay  where  she  was,  declaring 
that  she  could  not  sing  any  more,  and  that  she  was  afraid,  because 
some  rude  children  had  thrown  mud  at  her  the  day  before,  and  told 
her  not  to  come  into  the  street  again. 

This  first  revolt  seemed  to  infuriate  madame,  for  reaching  out 
to  where  the  child  stood  trembling  and  sobbing  she  clutched  her 
and  shook  her  violently,  and  then  slapping  her  tear-stained  little 
face  until  it  tingled,  she  bade  her  go  out  instantly,  and  not  to  return 
unless  she  brought  some  money  with  her. 


182  LADY   JANE. 

This  was  the  first  time  that  Lady  Jane  had  suffered  the  igno 
miny  of  a  blow,  and  it  seemed  to  arouse  her  pride  and  indignation, 
for  she  stopped  sobbing  instantly,  and,  wiping  the  tears  resolutely 
from  her  face,  shot  one  glance  of  mingled  scorn  and  surprise  at 
her  tyrant,  and  walked  out  of  the  room  with  the  dignity  of  a  little 
princess. 

When  once  outside,  she  held  her  hands  for  a  moment  to  her 
burning  face,  while  she  tried  to  still  the  tumult  of  anger  and  sorrow 
that  was  raging  in  her  little  heart;  then  she  gathered  herself  to 
gether  with  a  courage  beyond  her  years,  and  hurried  away  without 
once  looking  back  at  the  scene  of  her  torture. 

When  she  was  far  enough  from  the  wretched  neighborhood  to 
feel  safe  from  observation,  she  turned  in  a  direction  quite  different 
from  any  she  had  taken  before.  The  wind  was  intensely  cold,  but 
the  sun  shone  brightly,  and  she  hugged  her  little  shawl  around  her, 
and  ran  on  and  on  swiftly  and  hopefully. 

"  If  I  hurry  and  walk  and  walk  just  as  fast  as  I  can,  I  'm  sure  to 
come  to  Good  Children  Street,  and  then  I  '11  ask  Pepsie  or  ManYselle 
Diane  to  keep  me,  for  I  '11  never,  never,  go  back  to  Tante  Pauline 
again." 

By  and  by,  when  she  was  quite  tired  with  running  and  walking, 
she  came  to  a  beautiful,  broad  avenue  that  she  had  never  seen  before. 
There  were  large,  fine  houses,  and  gardens  blooming  brightly  even 
in  the  chilly  December  wind,  and  lovely  children,  dressed  in  warm 
velvet  and  furs,  walking  with  their  nurses  on  the  wide,  clean  side 
walks  ;  and  every  moment  carriages  drawn  by  glossy,  prancing 
horses  whirled  by,  and  people  laughed  and  talked  merrily,  and 
looked  so  happy  and  contented.  She  had  never  seen  anything  like  it 
before.  It  was  all  delightful,  like  a  pleasant  dream,  and  even  better 
than  Good  Children  Street.  She  thought  of  Pepsie,  and  wished  that 
she  could  see  it,  and  then  she  imagined  how  enchanted  her  friend 


LADY   JANE.  183 

would  be  to  ride  in  one  of  those  fine  carriages,  with  the  sun  shining 
on  her,  and  the  fresh  wind  blowing  in  her  face.  The  wind  reminded 
her  that  she  was  cold.  It  pierced  through  her  thin  frock  and  scanty 
skirts,  and  the  holes  in  her  shoes  and  stockings  made  her  ashamed. 
After  a  while  she  found  a  sunny  corner  en  the  steps  of  a  church, 
where  she  crouched  and  tried  to  cover  her  dilapidated  shoes  with 
her  short  skirts. 

Presently  a  merry  group  of  children  passed,  and  she  heard  them 
talking  of  Christmas.  "To-morrow  is  Christmas;  this  is  Christmas 
Eve,  and  we  are  going  to  have  a  Christmas-tree."  Her  heart  gave 
a  great  throb  of  joy.  By  to-morrow  she  was  sure  to  find  Pepsie,  and 
Pepsie  had  promised  her  a  Christmas-tree  long  ago,  and  she  would  n't 
forget ;  she  was  sure  to  have  it  ready  for  her.  Oh,  if  she  only  dared 
ask  some  of  these  kind-looking  people  to  show  her  the  way  to  Good 
Children  Street !  But  she  remembered  what  Tante  Pauline  had  told 
her,  and  fear  kept  her  silent.  However,  she  was  sure,  now  that 
she  had  got  away  from  that  dreadful  place,  that  some  one  would 
find  her.  Mr.  Gex  had  found  her  before  when  she  was  lost,  and 
he  might  find  her  now,  because  she  did  n't  have  a  domino  on,, 
and  he  would  know  her  right  away ;  and  then  she  would  get  Mr. 
Gex  to  hunt  for  Tony,  and  perhaps  she  would  have  Tony  for 
Christmas.  In  this  way  she  comforted  herself  until  she  was  quite 
happy. 

After  a  while  a  kind-looking  woman  came  along  with  a  market- 
basket  on  her  arm.  She  was  eating  something,  and  Lady  Jane,  being 
very  hungry,  looked  at  her  so  wistfully  that  the  woman  stopped 
and  asked  her  if  she  would  like  a  piece  of  bread.  She  replied 
eagerly  that  she  would.  The  good  woman  gave  her  a  roll  and  a 
large,  rosy  apple,  and  she  went  back  to  her  corner  and  munched 
them  contentedly.  Then  a  fine  milk-cart  rattled  up  to  a  neighbor 
ing  door,  and  her  heart  almost  leaped  to  her  throat ;  but  it  was  not 


184  LADY   JANE. 

Tante  Modeste.  Still,  Tante  Modeste  might  come  any  moment. 
She  sold  milk  way  up  town  to  rich  people.  Yes,  she  was  sure  to 
come ;  so  she  sat  in  her  corner  and  ate  her  apple,  and  waited  with 
unwavering  confidence. 

And  in  this  way  the  day  passed  pleasantly  and  comfortably  to 
Lady  Jane.  She  was  not  very  cold  in  her  sheltered  corner,  and  the 
good  woman's  kindness  had  satisfied  her  hunger ;  but  at  last  she 
began  to  think  that  it  must  be  nearly  night,  for  she  saw  the  sun  slip 
ping  down  into  the  cold,  gray  clouds  behind  the  opposite  houses,  and 
she  wondered  what  she  should  do  and  where  she  should  go  when  it 
was  quite  dark.  Neither  Tante  Modeste  nor  Mr.  Gex  had  come, 
and  now  it  was  too  late  and  she  would  have  to  wait  until  to-morrow. 
Then  she  began  to  reproach  herself  for  sitting  still.  "  I  should  have 
gone  on  and  on,  and  by  this  time  I  would  have  been  in  Good 
Children  Street,"  said  she. 

She  never  thought  of  returning  to  her  old  haunts  or  to  Tante 
Pauline,  and  if  she  had  tried  she  could  not  have  found  her  way  back. 
She  had  wandered  too  far  from  her  old  landmarks,  so  the  only  thing  to 
do  was  to  press  on  in  her  search  for  Good  Children  Street.  It  was 
while  she  was  standing  at  a  corner,  uncertain  which  way  to  turn,  that 
Mrs.  Lanier  caught  a  glimpse  of  her.  And  what  good  fortune  it 
would  have  been  to  Lady  Jane  if  that  noble-hearted  woman  had 
obeyed  the  kindly  impulse  that  urged  her  to  stop  and  speak  to  the 
friendless  little  waif!  But  destiny  intended  it  to  be  otherwise,  so  she 
went  on  her  way  to  her  luxurious  home  and  happy  children,  while 
the  desolate  orphan  wandered  about  in  the  cold  and  darkness,  look 
ing  in  vain  for  the  humble  friends  who  even  at  that  moment  were 
thinking  of  her  and  longing  for  her. 

Poor  little  soul!  she  had  never  been  out  in  the  dark  night  alone 
before,  and  every  sound  and  movement  startled  her.  Once  a  dog 
sprang  out  and  barked  at  her,  and  she  ran  trembling  into  a  doorway, 


LADY    JANE. 


only  to  be  ordered  away  by  an  unkind  servant.  Sometimes  she 
stopped  and  looked  into  the  windows  of  the  beautiful  houses  as  she 
passed.  There  were  bright  fires,  lights,  pictures,  and  flowers,  and 
she  heard  the  merry  voices  of 
children  laughing  and  play 
ing;  and  the  soft  notes  of  a 
piano,  with  some  one  singing, 
reminded  her  of  Mam'selle 
Diane.  Then  a  choking  sob 
would  rise  in  her  throat,  and 
she  would  cover  her  face  and 
cry  a  little  silently. 

Presently  she  found  her 
self  before  a  large,  handsome 
house;  the  blinds  were  open 
and  the  parlor  was  brilliantly 
lighted.  A  lady  —  it  was  Mrs. 
Lanier — sat  at  the  piano  play 
ing  a  waltz,  and  two  little 
girls  in  white  frocks  and  red 
sashes  were  dancing  together. 
Lady  Jane  pressed  near  the 
railing,  and  devoured  the 
scene  with  wide,  sparkling 
eyes.  They  were  the  same 
steps  that  Gex  had  taught 
her,  and  it  was  the  very  waltz 
that  he  sometimes  whistled. 
Before  she  knew  it,  quite  carried  away  by  the  music,  and  forgetful 
of  everything,  she  dropped  her  shawl,  and  holding  out  her  soiled 
ragged  skirt,  was  tripping  and  whirling  as  merrily  as  the  little  ones 


"A  RIGHT    MERRY   TIME    SHE    HAD    OUT 

THERE    IN    THE    BITING   DECEMBER 

NIGHT,  PIROUETTING  WITH  HER 

OWN  SHADOW." 


1 86  LADY    JANE. 

within,  while  opposite  to  her,  her  shadow,  thrown  by  a  street  lamp 
over  her  head,  tripped  and  bobbed  and  whirled,  not  unlike  Mr.  Gex, 
the  ancient  "professeur  of  the  dance."  And  a  right  merry  time  she 
had  out  there  in  the  biting  December  night,  pirouetting  with  her 
own  shadow. 

Suddenly  the  music  stopped,  a  nurse  came  and  took  the 
little  girls  away,  and  some  one  drew  down  the  blinds  and  shut  her 
out  alone  in  the  cold ;  there  was  nothing  then  for  her  to  do  but  to 
move  on,  and  picking  up  her  shawl,  she  crept  away  a  little  wearily, 
for  dancing,  although  it  had  lightened  her  heart,  had  wasted  her 
strength,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  wind  was  rising  and  the 
cold  becoming  more  intense,  for  she  shivered  from  time  to  time, 
and  her  bare  little  toes  and  fingers  smarted  badly.  Once  or  twice, 
from  sheer  exhaustion,  she  dropped  down  on  a  door-step,  but  when 
she  saw  any  one  approaching  she  sprang  up  and  hurried  along,  trying 
to  be  brave  and  patient.  Yes,  she  must  come  to  Good  Children 
Street  very  soon,  and  she  never  turned  a  corner  that  she  did  not 
expect  to  see  Madelon's  little  house,  wedged  in  between  the  two 
tall  ones,  and  the  light  gleaming  from  Pepsie's  small  window. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

LADY    JANE    FINDS    SHELTER 

A1  last,  when  she  began  to  feel  very  tired  and  sleepy,  she  came 
to  a  place  where  two  streets  seemed  to  run  together  in  a  long 
point,  and  before  her  she  saw  a  large  building,  with  lights  in 
all  the  windows,  and  behind  it  a  tall  church  spire  seemed  nearly  to 
touch  the  stars  that  hung  above  it  so  soft  and  bright.  Her  tearful 
eyes  singled  out  two  of  them  very  near  together  that  looked  as 
though  they  were  watching  her,  and  she  held  out  her  arms,  and 
murmured,  "  Papa,  mama,  can't  I  come  to  you  ?  I  'm  so  cold  and 
sleepy."  Poor  little  soul!  the  stars  made  no  answer  to  her  piteous 
appeal,  but  continued  to  twinkle  as  serenely  as  they  have  done  since 
time  began,  and  will  do  until  it  ends.  Then  she  looked  again 
toward  the  brilliantly  lighted  windows  under  the  shadow  of  the 
church  spire.  She  could  not  get  very  near,  for  in  front  of  the  house 
was  an  iron  railing,  but  she  noticed  a  marble  slab  let  into  the  wall 
over  the  porch,  on  which  was  an  inscription,  and  above  it  a  row  of 
letters  were  visible  in  the  light  from  the  street  lamps.  Lady  Jane 
spelled  them  out.  '''Orphans'  Home.'  Or-phans !  I  wonder 
what  orphans  are  ?  Oh,  how  warm  and  light  it  is  in  there  !  "  Then 
she  put  her  little  cold  toes  between  the  iron  railings  on  the  stone 
coping,  and  clinging  with  her  two  hands  lifted  herself  a  little  higher, 
and  there  she  saw  an  enchanting  sight.  In  the  center  of  the  room 
was  a  tree,  a  real  tree,  growing  nearly  to  the  ceiling,  with  moss  and 
flowers  on  the  ground  around  it,  and  never  did  the  spreading 
branches  of  any  other  tree  bear  such  glorious  fruit.  There  was  a 
great  deal  of  light  and  color ;  and  moving,  swaying  balls  of  silver 


i88 


LADY    JANE. 


and   gold  danced  and  whirled   before  her  dazzled  eyes.     At  first 
she  could  hardly  distinguish  the  different  objects  in  the  confusion 

of  form   and   color  ;    but  at 
last  she  saw  that  there  was 
everything    the     most    ex 
acting  child  could  desire  — 
birds,  rabbits,  dogs,  kittens, 
dolls  ;    globes   of  gold,    sil 
ver,  scarlet,  and  blue  ;   tops, 
pictures,     games,    bonbons, 
sugared    fruits,    apples,    or 
anges,     and     little     frosted 
cakes,   in   such   bewildering 
profusion  that  they  were  like 
the   patterns   in    a   kaleido 
scope.      And    there    was    a 
merry  group  of  girls,  laugh 
ing  and  talking,  while  they 
hung,  and  pinned,  and  fast 
ened,  more  and  more,  until 
it  seemed  as  if  the  branches 
would     break    under    their 
load. 

And  Lady  Jane,  cling 
ing  to  the  railing,  with  stiff, 
cold  hands  and  aching  feet, 
pressed  her  little,  white  face 
close  to  the  iron  bars,  and 


, 


Suddenly  the  door  was  opened,  and  a  woman  came  out  who, 
when  she  saw  the  child  clinging  to  the  railing,  bareheade 


LADY   JANE.  189 

scantily  clothed  in  spite  of  the  piercing  cold,  went  to  her  and  spoke 
kindly  and  gently. 

Her  voice  brought  Lady  Jane  back  from  Paradise  to  the  bitter 
reality  of  her  position  and  the  dreary  December  night.  For  a 
moment  she  could  hardly  move,  and  she  was  so  chilled  and  cramped 
that  when  she  unclasped  her  hold  she  almost  fell  into  the  motherly 
arms  extended  toward  her. 

"  My  child,  my  poor  child,  what  are  you  doing  here  so  late,  in 
the  cold,  and  with  these  thin  clothes  ?  Why  don't  you  go  home  ?  " 
Then  the  poor  little  soul,  overcome  with  a  horrible  fear,  began 
to  shiver  and  cry.  "  Oh,  don't!  Oh,  please  don't  send  me  back  to 
Tante  Pauline !  I  'm  afraid  of  her ;  she  shook  me  and  struck  me  this 
morning,  and  I  've  run  away  from  her." 

"  Where  does  your  Tante  Pauline  live  ? "  asked  the  woman, 
studying  the  tremulous  little  face  with  a  pair  of  keen,  thoughtful 
eyes. 

"  I  don't  know;   away  over  there  somewhere." 

"  Don't  you  know  the  name  of  the  street? " 

"  It  is  n't  a  street;  it's  a  little  place  all  mud  and  water,  with 
boards  to  walk  on." 

"  Can't  you  tell  me  your  aunt's  name  ?  " 

11  Yes,  it 's  Tante  Pauline." 

"  But  her  other  name  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  I  only  know  Tante  Pauline.  Oh  please,  please 
don't  send  me  there !  I  'm  afraid  to  go  back,  because  she  said  I 
must  sing  and  beg  money,  and  I  could  n't  sing,  and  I  did  n't  like  to 
ask  people  for  nickels,"  and  the  child's  voice  broke  into  a  little  wail 
of  entreaty  that  touched  the  kind  heart  of  that  noble,  tender,  loving 
woman,  the  Margaret  whom  some  to-day  call  Saint  Margaret.  She 
had  heard  just  such  pitiful  stories  before  from  hundreds  of  hapless 
little  orphans,  who  never  appealed  to  her  in  vain. 


19°  LADY   JANE. 

"  Where  are  your  father  and  mother  ? "  she  asked,  as  she  led  the 
child  to  the  shelter  of  the  porch. 

Lady  Jane  made  the  same  pathetic  answer  as  usual : 
"  Papa  went  to  heaven,  and  Xante   Pauline   says  that  mama's 
gone  away,  and  I  think  she  's  gone  where  papa  is." 

Margaret's  eyes  filled  with  tears,  while  the  child  shivered  and 
clung  closer  to  her.  "  Would  you  like  to  stay  here  to-night,  my 
dear  ? "  she  asked,  as  she  opened  the  door.  "  This  is  the  home  of  a 
great  many  little  homeless  girls,  and  the  good  Sisters  love  and  care 
for  them  all." 

Lady  Jane's  anxious  face  brightened  instantly.  "Oh,  can  I  — 
can  I  stay  here  where  the  Christmas-tree  is  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  child,  and  to-morrow  there   will  be  something  on  it 
for  you." 

And  Margaret  opened  the  door  and  led  Lady  Jane  into  that 
safe  and  comfortable  haven  where  so  many  hapless  little  ones  have 
found  a  shelter. 

That  night,  after  the  child  had  been  fed  and  warmed,  and  was 
safely  in  bed  with  the  other  little  orphans,  the  good  Margaret  sent 
word  to  all  the  police  stations  that  she  had  housed  a  little  wanderer 
who  if  called  for  could  be  found  safe  in  her  care. 

But  the  little  wanderer  was  not  claimed  the  next  day,  nor  the 
next  week.  Time  went  on,  and  Lady  Jane  was  considered  a  perma 
nent  inmate  of  the  home.  She  wore  the  plain  uniform  of  blue,  and 
her  long  golden  hair  was  plaited  in  a  thick  braid,  but  still  she  was 
lovely,  although  not  as  picturesque  as  when  Pepsie  brushed  her 
waving  locks.  She  was  so  lovely  in  person  and  so  gentle  and 
obedient  that  she  soon  became  the  idol,  not  only  of  the  good 
Margaret,  but  of  all  the  Sisters,  and  even  of  the  children,  and  her 
singing  was  a  constant  pleasure,  for  every  day  her  voice  became 
stronger  and  richer,  and  her  thrilling  little  strains  went  straight  to 
the  hearts  of  those  who  heard  them. 


LADY    JANE.  I91 

"  She  must  be  taught  music,"  said  Margaret  to  Sister  Agnes ; 
"  such  a  voice  must  be  carefully  cultivated  for  the  church."  Therefore 
the  Sister  who  took  her  in  charge  devoted  herself  to  the  development 
of  the  child's  wonderful  talent,  and  in  a  few  months  she  was  spoken 
of  as  quite  a  musical  prodigy,  and  all  the  wealthy  patronesses  of  the 
home  singled  her  out  as  one  that  was  rare  and  beautiful,  and  showered 
all  sorts  of  gifts  and  attentions  upon  her.  Among  those  who  treated 
her  with  marked  favor  was  Mrs.  Lanier.  She  never  visited  the 
home  without  asking  for  little  Jane  (Margaret  had  thought  it  best 
to  drop  the  "  Lady,"  and  the  child,  with  an  intuition  of  what  was 
right,  complied  with  the  wish),  and  never  went  away  without  leaving 
some  substantial  evidence  of  her  interest  in  the  child. 

"  I  believe  Mrs.  Lanier  would  like  to  adopt  little  Jane,"  said 
Margaret  one  day  to  Sister  Agnes,  when  that  lady  had  just  left.  "If 
she  had  n't  so  many  children  of  her  own,  I  don't  think  she  would 
leave  her  long  with  us." 

"  It  is  surprising,  the  interest  she  takes  in  her,"  returned  Sister 
Agnes.  "When  the  child  sings  she  just  sits  as  if  she  was  lost  to 
everything,  and  listens  with  all  her  soul." 

"  And  she  asks  the  strangest  questions  about  the  little  thing," 
continued  Margaret  reflectively.  "  And  she  is  always  suggesting 
some  way  to  find  out  who  the  child  belonged  to ;  but  although  I  've 
tried  every  way  I  can  think  of,  I  have  never  been  able  to  learn  any 
thing  satisfactory." 

It  was  true  Margaret  had  made  every  effort  from  the  very  first 
to  discover  something  of  the  child's  antecedents ;  but  she  had  been 
unsuccessful,  owing  inra  measure  to  Lady  Jane's  reticence.  She  had 
tried  by  every  means  to  draw  some  remarks  from  her  that  would 
furnish  a  clue  to  work  upon;  but  all  that  she  could  ever  induce  the 
child  to  say  was  to  repeat  the  simple  statement  she  had  made  the 
first  night,  when  the  good  woman  found  her,  cold  and  forlorn,  cling 
ing  to  the  iron  railing  in  front  of  the  Home. 


192  LADY    JANE. 

But  Lady  Jane's  reticence  was  not  from  choice.  It  was  fear 
that  kept  her  silent  about  her  life  in  Good  Children  Street.  Often 
she  would  be  about  to  mention  Pepsie,  Mam'selle  Diane,  or  the  Pai- 
choux,  but  the  fear  of  Tante  Pauline  would  freeze  the  words  on  her 
lips.  And  she  was  so  happy  where  she  was  that  even  her  sorrow 
for  the  loss  of  Tony  was  beginning  to  die  out.  She  loved  the  good 
Sisters,  and  her  grateful  little  heart  clung  to  Margaret  who  had  saved 
her  from  being  sent  back  to  Tante  Pauline  and  the  dreadful  fate  of  a 
little  street  beggar.  And  the  warm-hearted  little  orphans  were  like 
sisters  to  her ;  they  were  merry  little  playmates,  and  she  was  a  little 
queen  among  them.  And  there  was  the  church,  with  the  beautitul 
altar,  the  pictures,  the  lights,  and  the  music.  Oh,  how  heavenly  the 
music  was,  and  how  she  loved  to  sing  with  the  Sisters  !  and  the  grand 
organ  notes  carried  her  little  soul  up  to  the  celestial  gates  on  strains 
of  sweet  melody.  Yes,  she  loved  it  all  and  was  very  happy,  but 
she  never  ceased  to  think  of  Pepsie,  Madelon,  and  Gex,  and 
when  she  sang,  she  seemed  always  to  be  with  Mam'selle  Diane, 
nestled  close  to  her  side,  and,  mingled  with  the  strong,  rich  voices  ot 
the  Sisters,  she  fancied  she  heard  the  sweet,  faded  strains  of  her 
beloved  teacher  and  friend. 

Sometimes  when  she  was  studying  her  lessons  she  would  for 
get  for  a  moment  where  she  was,  and  her  book  would  fall  in  her 
lap,  and  again  she  would  be  sitting  with  Pepsie,  shelling  pecans  or 
watching  with  breathless  interest  a  game  of  solitaire ;  and  at  times 
when  she  was  playing  with  the  children  suddenly  she  would  remem 
ber  the  ancient  "  professeur  of  the  dance,"  and  she  would  hold  out 
her  little  blue  skirt,  and  trip  and  whirl  as  gracefully  in  her  coarse 
shoes  as  she  did  when  Gex  was  her  teacher. 

And  so  the  months  went  on  with  Lady  Jane,  while  her  friends 
in  Good  Children  Street  never  ceased  to  talk  of  her  and  to  lament 
over  their  loss.  Poor  Mam'selle  Diane  was  in  great  trouble.  Ma- 


LADY   JANE.  193 

dame  d'Hautreve  was  very  ill,  and  there  was  little  hope  of  her 
recovery.  "  She  may  linger  through  the  spring,"  the  doctor  said, 
"but  you  can  hardly  expect  to  keep  her  through  the  summer."  And 
he  was  right,  for  during  the  last  days  of  the  dry,  hot  month  of 
August,  the  poor  lady,  one  of  the  last  of  an  old  aristocracy,  closed  her 
dim  eyes  on  a  life  that  had  been  full  of  strange  vicissitudes,  and  was 
laid  away  in  the  ancient  tomb  of  the  d'Hautreves,  not  far  from  Lady 
Jane's  young  mother.  And  Mam'selle  Diane,  the  noble,  patient, 
self-sacrificing  daughter,  was  left  alone  in  the  little  house,  with  her 
memories,  her  flowers,  and  her  birds.  And  often,  during  those  first 
bitter  days  of  bereavement,  she  would  say  to  herself,  "  Oh,  if  I  had 
that  sweet  child  now,  what  a  comfort  she  would  be  to  me!  To  hear 
her  heavenly  little  voice  would  give  me  new  hope  and  courage." 

On  the  morning  of  Madame  d'Hautreve's  funeral,  when  Pai- 
choux  opened  his  paper  at  the  breakfast  table,  he  uttered  such  a 
loud  exclamation  of  surprise  that  Tante  Modeste  almost  dropped  the 
coffee-pot. 

"  What  is  it,  papa,  what  is  it  ?  "  she  cried. 

And  in  reply  Paichoux  read  aloud  the  notice  of  the  death  of 
Madame  la  veuve  d'Hautreve,  nee  d'Orgenois;  and  directly  under 
neath  :  "  Died  at  the  Charity  Hospital,  Madame  Pauline  Jozain,  nee 
Bergeron." 


CHAPTER   XXIX 

TANTE    MODESTE    FINDS    LADY    JANE 

WHEN  Paichoux  read  of  the  death  of  Madame  Jozain  in  the 
Charity    Hospital,    he    said    decidedly:     "  Modeste,    that 
woman   never  left  the  city.     She  never  went  to   Texas. 
She  has  been  hidden  here  all  the  time,  and  I  must  find  that  child." 
"  And  if  you  find  her,  papa,  bring  her  right  here  to  me,"  said  the 
kind-hearted  woman.     "  We  have  a  good  many  children,  it  's  true; 
but  there  's  always  room  for  Lady  Jane,  and  I  love  the  little  thing 
as  well  as  if  she  were  mine." 

Paichoux  was  gone  nearly  all  day,  and,  much  to  the  disappoint 
ment  of  the  whole  family,  did  not  find  Lady  Jane. 

His  first  visit  had  been  to  the  Charity  Hospital,  where  he  learned 
that  Madame  Jozain  had  been  brought  there  a  few  days  before  by 
the  charity  wagon.  It  had  been  called  to  a  miserable  little  cabin 
back  of  the  city,  where  they  had  found  the  woman  very  ill,  with  no 
one  to  care  for  her,  and  destitute  of  every  necessity.  There  was 
no  child  with  her — she  was  quite  alone;  and  in  the  few  lucid  inter 
vals  that  preceded  her  death  she  had  never  spoken  of  any  child. 
Paichoux  then  obtained  the  directions  from  the  driver  of  the  charity 
wagon,  and  after  some  search  he  found  the  wretched  neighborhood. 
There  all  they  could  tell  him  was  that  the  woman  had  come  a  few 
weeks  before ;  that  she  had  brought  very  little  with  her,  and 
appeared  to  be  suffering.  There  was  no  child  with  her  then,  and 
none  of  the  neighbors  had  ever  seen  one  visit  her,  or,  for  that  mat 
ter,  a  grown  person  either.  When  she  became  worse  they  were 


LADY    JANE.  195 

afraid  she  might  die  alone,  and  had  called  the  charity  wagon  to  take 
her  to  the  hospital.  The  Public  Administrator  had  taken  charge  of 
what  little  she  left,  and  that  was  all  they  could  tell. 

Did  any  one  know  where  she  lived  before  she  came  there  ?  No 
one  knew ;  an  old  negro  had  brought  her  and  her  few  things,  and 
they  had  not  noticed  the  number  of  his  wagon.  The  landlord  of 
the  squalid  place  said  that  the  same  old  man  who  brought  her  had 
engaged  her  room ;  he  did  not  know  the  negro.  Madame  had  paid 
a  month's  rent  in  advance,  and  just  when  the  month  was  up  she  had 
been  carried  to  the  hospital. 

There  the  information  stopped,  and,  in  spite  of  every  effort, 
Paichoux  could  learn  no  more.  The  wretched  woman  had  indeed 
obliterated,  as  it  were,  every  trace  of  the  child.  In  her  fear  of 
detection,  after  Lady  Jane's  escape  from  her,  she  had  moved  from 
place  to  place,  hunted  and  pursued  by  a  guilty  conscience  that  would 
never  allow  her  to  rest,  and  gradually  going  from  bad  to  worse 
until  she  had  died  in  that  last  refuge  for  the  miserable,  the  Charity 
Hospital. 

"And  here  I  am,  just  where  I  started!"  said  Paichoux  dejectedly, 
after  he  had  told  Tante  Modeste  of  his  day's  adventure.  "  How 
ever,"  said  he,  "  I  sha'n't  give  it  up.  I  'm  bound  to  find  out  what 
she  did  with  that  child  ;  the  more  I  think  of  it,  the  more  I  'm  con 
vinced  that  she  never  went  to  Texas,  and  that  the  child  is  still  here. 
Now  I  've  a  mind  to  visit  every  orphan  asylum  in  the  city,  and  see 
if  I  can't  find  her  in  one  of  them." 

"  I  '11  go  with  you,"  said  Tante  Modeste.  "  We  '11  see  for  ourselves, 
and  then  we  shall  be  satisfied.  Unless  she  gave  Lady  Jane  away, 
she 's  likely  to  be  in  some  such  place ;  and  I  think,  as  I  always  have, 
Paichoux,  that  she  stole  Lady  Jane  from  some  rich  family,  and  that 
was  why  she  ran  off  so  suddenly  and  hid.  That  lady's  coming  the 
day  after  proves  that  some  one  was  on  madame's  track.  Oh,  I  tell 


196 


LADY   JANE. 


you  there  's  a  history  there,  if  we  can  only  get  at  it  I  We  '11  start 
out  to-morrow  and  see  what  can  be  done.  I  shan't  rest  until  the 
child  is  found  and  restored  to  her  own  people." 

One  morning,  while  Lady  Jane  was  in  the  school-room  busy 
with  her  lessons,  Margaret  entered  with  some  visitors.     It  was  a 


"PAICHOUX   LOOKED   ON,   SMILING    BROADLY." 

very  common  thing  for  people  to  come  during  study  hours,  and  the 
child  did  not  look  up  until  she  heard  some  one  say :  "  These  are  the 
children  of  that  age.  See  if  you  recognize  '  Lady  Jane '  among 

them." 

It  was  her  old   name  that  startled  her,   and   made   her    turn 
suddenly  toward  the  man  and  woman,  who  were  looking  eagerly 


LADY   JANE.  197 

about  the  room.  In  an  instant  the  bright-faced  woman  cried,  "  Yes  ! 
yes !  Oh,  there  she  is ! "  and  simultaneously  Lady  Jane  exclaimed, 
" Tante  Modeste,  oh,  Tante  Modeste!"  and,  quicker  than  I  can  tell 
it,  she  was  clasped  to  the  loving  heart  of  her  old  friend,  while 
Paichoux  looked  on,  twirling  his  hat  and  smiling  broadly. 

"  Jane,  you  can  come  with  us,"  said  Margaret,  as  she  led  the  way 
to  the  parlor. 

There  was  a  long  and  interesting  conversation,  to  which  the 
child  listened  with  grave  wonder,  while  she  nestled  close  to  Tante 
Modeste.  She  did  not  understand  all  they  said ;  there  was  a  great 
deal  about  Madame  Jozain  and  Good  Children  Street,  and  a  gold 
watch  with  diamond  initials,  and  beautiful  linen  with  initial  letters, 
J.  C.,  embroidered  on  it,  and  madame's  sudden  flight,  and  the  visit 
of  the  elegant  lady  in  the  fine  carriage,  the  Texas  story,  and 
madame's  wretched  hiding-place  and  miserable  death  in  the  Char 
ity  Hospital ;  to  all  of  which  Margaret  listened  with  surprise  and 
interest.  Then  she  in  turn  told  the  Paichoux  how  Lady  Jane  had 
been  found  looking  in  the  window  on  Christmas  Eve,  while  she 
clung  to  the  railings,  half-clad  and  suffering  with  the  cold,  and  how  she 
had  questioned  her  and  endeavored  to  get  some  clue  to  her  identity. 

'  Why  did  n't  you  tell  Mother  Margaret  about  your  friends  in 
Good  Children  Street,  my  dear?"  asked  Tante  Modeste,  with  one 
of  her  bright  smiles. 

Lady  Jane    hesitated    a    moment,    and    then    replied    timidly, 

"  Because  I  was  afraid." 

"  What  were  you  afraid  of,  my  child  ? "  asked  Paichoux  kindly.       ( 
'  Tante  Pauline  told  me  that  I  must  n't."     Then  she  stopped  and 

looked  wistfully  at  Margaret.    "Must  I  tell  now,  Mother  Margaret? 

Will  it  be  right  to  tell  ?     Tante  Pauline  told  me  not  to." 

'  Yes,  my  dear,  you  can  tell  everything  now.     It  's  right.     You 

must  tell  us  all  you  remember." 


I98  LADY   JANE. 

"  Tante  Pauline  told  me  that  I  must  never,  never  speak  of  Good 
Children  Street  nor  of  any  one  that  lived  there,  and  that  I  must 
never  tell  any  one  my  name,  nor  where  I  lived." 

"Poor  child!"  said  Margaret  to  Paichoux.  "There  must  have 
been  some  serious  reason  for  so  much  secrecy.  Yes,  I  agree  with 
you  that  there  's  a  mystery  which  we  must  try  to  clear  up,  but  I 
would  rather  wait  a  little  while.  Jane  has  a  friend  who  is  very  rich 
and  very  influential  —  Mrs.  Lanier,  the  banker's  wife.  She  is  absent 
in  Washington,  and  when  she  returns  I  '11  consult  with  her,  and 
we  '11  see  what  's  best  to  be  done.  I  should  n't  like  to  take  any 
important  step  until  then.  But  in  the  mean  time,  Mr.  Paichoux,  it 
will  do  no  harm  to  put  your  plan  in  operation.  I  think  the  idea  is 
good,  and  in  this  way  we  can  work  together." 

Then  Paichoux  promised  to  begin  his  investigations  at  once, 
for  he  was  certain  that  they  would  bring  about  some  good  results, 
and  that,  before  many  months  had  passed,  Mother  Margaret  would 
have  one  orphan  less  to  care  for. 

While  Margaret  and  Paichoux  were  discussing  these  important 
matters,  Tante  Modeste  and  Lady  Jane  were  talking  as  fast  as  their 
tongues  could  fly.  The  child  heard  for  the  first  time  about  poor 
Mam'selle  Diane's  loss,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears  of  sympathy 
for  her  gentle  friend.  And  then,  there  were  Pepsie  and  Madelon, 
Gex  and  Tite  —  did  they  remember  her  and  want  to  see  her?  Oh, 
how  glad  she  was  to  hear  from  them  all  again ;  and  Tante  Modeste 
cried  a  little  when  Lady  Jane  told  her  of  that  terrible  midnight  ride, 
of  the  wretched  home  she  had  been  carried  to,  of  her  singing  and 
begging  in  the  streets,  of  her  cold  and  hunger,  and  of  the  blow  she 
had  received  as  the  crowning  cruelty. 

"  But  the  worst  of  all  was  losing  Tony.  Oh,  Tante  Modeste  ! " 
and  the  tears  sprang  to  her  eyes,  "  I  'm  afraid  I  '11  never,  never  find 
him  !  " 


LADY    JANE.  199 

"  Yes,  you  will,  my  dear.  I  've  faith  to  believe  you  will,"  replied 
Tante  Modeste  hopefully.  "  We  Ve  found  you,  ma  petite,  and  now 
we  11  find  the  bird.  Don't  fret  about  it." 

Then  after  Margaret  had  promised  to  take  Lady  Jane  to  Good 
Children  Street  the  next  day,  the  good  couple  went  away  well 
pleased  with  what  they  had  accomplished. 

Tante  Modeste  could  not  return  home  until  she  had  told  Pepsie 
as  well  as  little  Gex  the  good  news.  And  Mam'selle  Diane's  sad 
heart  was  greatly  cheered  to  know  that  the  dear  child  was  safe  in 
the  care  of  the  good  Margaret.  And  oh,  what  bright  hopes  and 
plans  filled  the  lonely  hours  of  that  evening,  as  she  sat  dreaming  on 
her  little  gallery  in  the  pale,  cold  moonlight ! 

The  next  day  Pepsie  cried  and  laughed  together  when  Lady 
Jane  sprang  into  her  arms  and  embraced  her  with  the  old  fervor. 
"  You  're  just  the  same,"  she  said,  holding  the  child  off  and  looking 
at  her  fondly;  "that  is,  your  face  has  n't  changed;  but  I  don't  like 
your  hair  braided,  and  I  don't  like  your  clothes.  I  must  get  Mother 
Margaret  to  let  me  dress  you  as  I  used  to." 

And  Mam'selle  Diane  had  something  of  the  same  feeling 
when,  after  the  first  long  embrace,  she  looked  at  the  child  and 
asked  Mother  Margaret  if  it  was  necessary  for  her  to  wear  the 
uniform  of  the  home. 

"  She  must  wear  it  while  she  is  an  inmate,"  replied  Margaret, 
smiling.  "  But  that  will  not  be  long,  I  suspect.  We  shall  lose  her — 
yes,  I  'm  afraid  we  shall  lose  her  soon." 

Then  Mam'selle  Diane  talked  a  long  while  with  Margaret  about 
her  hopes  and  plans  for  Lady  Jane.  "I  am  all  alone,"  she  said 
pathetically,  "and  she  would  give  me  a  new  interest  in  life.  If  her 
relatives  are  not  discovered,  why  cannot  I  have  her  ?  I  will  educate 
her,  and  teach  her  music,  and  devote  my  life  to  her." 

Margaret  promised  to  think  it  over,  and  in  the  mean  time  she 


200  LADY    JANE. 

consented  that  Lady  Jane  should  remain  a  few  days  with  Mam'selle 
Diane  and  her  friends  in  Good  Children  Street. 

That  night,  while  the  child  was  nestled  close  to  Mam'selle  Diane 
as  they  sat  together  on  the  little  moonlit  gallery,  she  suddenly  asked 
with  startling  earnestness: 

"  Has  your  mama  gone  to  heaven  too,  Mam'selle  Diane  ? " 

"  I  hope  so,  my  darling ;  I  think  so,"  replied  Diane  in  a  choked 
voice. 

"  Well,  then,  if  she  has,  she  '11  see  my  papa  and  mama,  and  tell 
them  about  me,  and  oh,  Mam'selle,  won't  they  be  glad  to  hear 
from  me  ? " 

"  I  hope  she  will  tell  them  how  dearly  I  love  you,  and  what  you 
are  to  me,"  murmured  Mam'selle,  pressing  her  cheeks  to  the  bright 
little  head  resting  against  her  shoulder. 

"  Look  up  there,  Mam'selle  Diane,  do  you  see  those  two  beauti 
ful  stars  so  near  together?  I  always  think  they  are  mama  and 
papa,  watching  me.  Now  I  know  mama  is  there  too,  and  will  never 
come  back  again ;  and  see,  near  those  there  is  another  very  soft 
and  bright,  perhaps  that  is  your  mama  shining  there  with  them." 

"Perhaps  it  is,  my  dear — yes,  perhaps  it  is,"  and  Mam'selle 
Diane  raised  her  faded  eyes  toward  the  sky,  with  new  hope  and 
strength  in  their  calm  depths. 

About  that  time  Paichoux  began  a  most  laborious  correspon 
dence  with  a  fashionable  jeweler  in  New  York,  which  resulted  in 
some  very  valuable  information  concerning  a  watch  with  a  diamond 
monogram. 


CHAPTER   XXX 


AT  MRS.  LANIER'S 


IT  was  a  few  days  before  the  following  Christmas,  and  Mrs.  Lanier, 
who  had  just  returned  from  Washington,  was  sitting  alone  one 
evening   in  her  own  pretty  little  parlor,  when  a  servant  handed 
her  a  card. 

"Arthur  Maynard,"  she  read.  "  Let  him  come  up  at  once";  and 
as  the  servant  left  the  room  she  added  to  herself:  "  Dear  boy!  I  'm 
so  glad  he  's  come  for  Christmas." 

In  a  moment  a  handsome  young  fellow  was  in  the  room,  shak 
ing  hands  in  the  most  cordial  way. 

"  You  see  I  'm  home,  as  usual,  for  the  holidays,  Mrs.  Lanier,"  he 
said,  showing  a  row  of  very  white  teeth  when  he  laughed. 

"  Yes,  you  always  do  come  for  Christmas  and  Mardi-gras,  don't 
you?  You  're  such  a  boy  still,  Arthur,"  and  Mrs.  Lanier  looked  at 
him  as  if  she  approved  of  his  boyishness.  "  Sit  down  and  let  us 
have  a  long  chat.  The  children  have  gone  to  the  theater  with  Mr. 
Lanier.  I  was  too  tired  to  go  with  them.  You  know  we  reached 
home  only  this  morning." 

"  No.  I  did  n't  know  that  or  I  would  n't  have  come.  You  don't 
want  to  be  bothered  with  me  when  you  're  so  tired,"  said  Arthur, 
rising. 

"  Nonsense,    Arthur  ;     sit  down.      You    always    cheer    me    up. 

You  're  so  full  of  life  and  spirits,    I  'm   really  glad  to  see   you." 

While  Mrs.  Lanier  was  speaking,  the  young  fellow's  bright,  clear 

eyes  were  traveling  about  the  room,   and  glancing  at  everything, 


202  LADY    JANE. 

pictures,  bric-a-brac,  and  flowers.  Suddenly  he  uttered  an  exclama 
tion,  and,  springing  up,  seized  a  photograph  in  a  velvet  frame  that 
stood  on  a  cabinet  near  him. 

It  represented  a  family  group,  father,  mother,  and  child;  and  for 
a  moment  he  seemed  too  surprised  to  speak.  Then  he  asked,  in  a 
very  excited  tone,  "Mrs.  Lanier,  where  did  you  get  this  —  and  who 
is  the  lady  ?  " 

"  She  is  a  friend  of  mine,"  said  Mrs.  Lanier,  much  surprised. 
"  Why  do  you  ask — have  you  ever  seen  her?" 

"  Yes,  yes;  and  I  have  a  copy  of  this  picture.  It  is  such  a  strange 
story ;  but  first,  before  I  say  a  word,  please  tell  me  who  she  is,  and 
all  about  her." 

"Why,  Arthur,  you  seem  greatly  interested,"  returned  Mrs. 
Lanier,  with  a  smile.  "  The  lady  is  my  dear  friend,  Jane  Chetwynd. 
We  were  classmates  at  boarding-school  in  New  York ;  her  father  is 
the  rich  Mr.  Chetwynd.  You  have  heard  of  him,  have  n't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed ;  but  please  go  on." 

"  Do  you  want  all  the  history  ?  " 

"  Everything,  please.  I  Ve  a  serious  reason  for  wanting  to  know 
all  about  the  originals  of  this  photograph." 

"  Well,  the  gentleman  is  Jane's  husband,  Mr.  Churchill,  an  Eng 
lishman,  and  the  little  girl  is  '  Lady  Jane,'  their  only  child.  There  's 
quite  a  romance  connected  with  Jane's  history,  and  I  'm  just  now 
floundering  in  a  sea  of  darkness  in  regard  to  that  same  Jane 
Chetwynd." 

"  If  you  please,  go  on,  and  perhaps  I  can  help  you  out,"  urged 
the  young  man,  eagerly  and  abruptly. 

"  Well,  as  it  's  a  subject  I  'm  greatly  interested  in,  I  don't  mind 
telling  you  the  whole  story.  Jane  Chetwynd  was  the  only  daugh 
ter  ;  her  mother  died  when  she  was  a  child.  Jane  was  her  father's 
idol ;  he  had  great  plans  for  her,  and  when  she  was  only  eighteen 


LADY   JANE.  203 

he  hoped  she  would  marry  one  of  the  rich  Bindervilles.  Jane, 
however,  married  a  young  Englishman  who  was  in  her  father's 
employ.  The  young  man  was  handsome,  as  you  can  see  by  his 
picture,  well  born,  and  well  educated;  but  he  was  unknown  and 
poor.  To  Richard  Chetwynd  that  was  unpardonable,  and  therefore 
he  disowned  Jane — cut  her  off  entirely,  refused  to  see  her,  or  even 
to  allow  her  name  to  be  mentioned. 

"  A  cousin  of  Mr.  Churchill,  who  lived  in  England,  owned  a  fine 
ranch  in  Texas,  and  there  the  young  couple  went  to  pass  their 
honeymoon.  They  were  delighted  with  the  ranch,  and  decided  to 
make  it  a  permanent  home. 

"  Their  little  girl  was  born  there,  and  was  named  for  her  mother. 
On  account  of  some  dainty  little  ways,  and  to  avoid  confusion,  her 
father  called  her  Lady  Jane. 

"  In  her  frequent  letters  to  me,  my  friend  spoke  of  her  as  a 
remarkable  child,  and  of  course  she  was  the  idol  of  her  parents.  In 
spite  of  the  trouble  with  her  father,  Jane  never  regretted  her  choice, 
and  even  her  isolated  life  had  many  charms  for  her.  She  was  of 
a  quiet,  domestic  disposition,  and  loved  the  country.  Indeed,  I  know 
her  life  there  was  one  of  idyllic  happiness.  When  the  child  was  three 
years  old  Jane  sent  me  that  picture ;  then  about  two  more  years 
passed,  during  which  time  I  heard  from  her  frequently,  and  after  that 
suddenly  the  correspondence  stopped.  I  was  in  Europe  for  a  year, 
and  when  I  returned  I  set  to  work  to  find  out  the  cause.  Many  letters 
were  returned  from  San  Antonio,  the  nearest  post-office ;  but  finally 
we  succeeded  in  communicating  with  the  overseer  on  the  ranch,  who 
informed  us  that  Mr.  Churchill  had  died  suddenly  of  a  prevalent  fever, 
the  summer  before, —  more  than  two  years  ago  now, —  and  that 
Mrs.  Churchill  with  her  little  girl  had  left  the  ranch  directly  after 
her  husband's  death  to  return  to  New  York,  since  which  time  he 
had  received  no  news  of  her ;  and  the  overseer  also  expressed  sur- 


204  LADY   JANE. 

prise  in  his  letter  at  her  long  silence,  as  he  said  she  had  left  many 
valuable  things  that  were  to  be  sent  to  her  when  and  where  she 
should  direct,  after  she  reached  New  York ;  he  had  since  received 
no  instructions,  and  the  property  was  still  lying  there. 

"  Then  I  wrote  directly  to  New  York  to  a  friend  who  was  very 
intimate  at  one  time  with  the  Chetwynds,  for  some  information 
about  Jane ;  but  she  could  tell  me  nothing  more  than  the  news 
papers  told  me,  that  Richard  Chetwynd  had  gone  abroad,  to  remain 
some  years.  Of  Jane  I  could  not  hear  a  word. 

"  Sometimes  I  think  she  may  have  followed  her  father  to  Europe, 
and  that  they  are  reconciled  and  living  there  together.  But  why  does 
she  not  write  to  me  —  to  the  friend  whom  she  always  loved  so  dearly  ? 

"  Then  there  is  another  thing  that  has  worried  me  no  little, 
although  in  itself  it  is  a  trifle.  When  we  were  at  school  together 
I  had  a  little  birthday  gift  made  at  Tiffany's  for  Jane,  a  silver  jewel- 
box,  engraved  with  pansies  and  forget-me-nots,  and  a  lot  of  school 
girl  nonsense.  I  made  the  design  myself,  and  the  design  for  the 
monogram  also.  About  a  year  ago  I  found  that  very  box  for  sale 
at  Madame  Hortense's,  on  Canal  Street.  When  I  asked  Hortense 
where  she  got  it,  she  told  me  that  it  was  left  with  her  to  sell  by  a 
woman  who  lived  down  town  on  Good  Children  Street,  and  she 
gave  me  the  name  and  the  address ;  but  when  I  went  there  a  day 
or  two  afterwards  the  woman  had  gone, — left  mysteriously  in  the 
night,  and  none  of  the  neighbors  could  tell  me  where  she  went.  Of 
course  the  woman's  sudden  disappearance  made  me  feel  that  there 
was  something  wrong  about  her,  and  I  can't  help  thinking  that 
she  got  the  little  box  dishonestly.  It  may  have  been  stolen,  either 
in  Texas  or  in  New  York,  and  finally  drifted  here  for  sale.  I  got 
possession  of  it  at  once,  very  thankful  that  such  a  precious  relic  of 
my  girlhood  should  have  accidentally  fallen  into  my  hands ;  but 
every  time  I  look  at  it  I  feel  that  it  is  a  key  which  might  unlock 
a  mystery  if  only  I  knew  how  to  use  it." 


LADY   JANE.  205 

All  the  while  Mrs.  Lanier  was  speaking,  Arthur  Maynard  fol 
lowed  every  word  with  bright,  questioning  eyes  and  eager,  intense 
interest.  Sometimes  he  seemed  about  to  interrupt  her ;  then  he 
closed  his  lips  firmly  and  continued  to  listen. 

Mrs.  Lanier  was  looking  at  him  inquiringly,  and  when  he 
waited  as  if  to  hear  more  she  said :  "  I  have  told  you  all.  Now 
what  have  you  to  tell  me  ? " 

"  Something  quite  as  strange  as  anything  you  have  told  me," 
replied  Arthur  Maynard,  with  an  enigmatical  air.  "  You  must  not 
think  you  're  the  only  one  with  a  mystery  worthy  the  skill  of  a 
Parisian  detective.  If  I  had  any  such  talent  I  might  make  myself 
famous,  with  your  clues  and  my  clues  together." 

"  What  in  the  world  do  you  mean,  Arthur  ?  What  do  you  know  ? — 
for  pity's  sake,  tell  me !  You  can't  think  how  Jane  Chetwynd's  long 
silence  distresses  me." 

"  Fool  that  I  was  ! "  cried  the  young  fellow,  jumping  up  and 
pacing  the  room  with  a  half-tragic  air.  "If.  I  had  n't  been  an 
idiot  —  a  simpleton  —  a  gosling  —  if  I  'd  had  a  spark  of  sense,  I 
could  have  brought  that  same  Jane  Chetwynd,  and  the  adorable 
little  Lady  Jane,  straight  to  your  door.  Instead  of  that,  I  let  them 
get  off  the  train  at  Gretna  alone  when  it  was  nearly  dark,  and — 
Heaven  only  knows  what  has  happened  to  them  ! " 

"  Arthur  Maynard,  what  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Lanier,  rising 
to  her  feet,  pale  and  trembling.  "When  —  where  —  where  is  she 
now  —  where  is  Jane  Chetwynd?" 

"  I  wish  I  knew.  I  'm  as  wretched  and  anxious  as  you  are,  Mrs. 
Lanier,  and  what  has  happened  to-day  has  quite  upset  me ;  but  I 
must  tell  you  my  story,  as  you  have  told  yours." 

And  then,  while  Mrs.  Lanier  listened  with  clasped  hands  and 
intent  gaze,  Arthur  Maynard  told  of  the  meeting  with  Lady  Jane 
and  her  mother  on  the  train,  of  the  gift  of  "Tony,"  the  blue  heron, 
and  of  the  separation  at  Gretna. 


206  LADY   JANE. 

"  Oh,  Arthur,  why  —  why  did  n't  you  go  with  them  and  bring 
them  to  me  ?  She  was  a  stranger,  and  she  did  n't  know  the  way, 
and  your  being  our  friend  and  all." 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Lanier,  she  never  mentioned  your  name  or  num 
ber.  How  could  I  guess  you  were  the  friend  to  whom  she  was  going? 
and  I  did  n't  want  to  seem  presuming." 

"  But  where  did  she  go  ?    She  never  came  here  !  " 

"  Wait  till  I  tell  you  the  rest,  and  then  we  will  discuss  that. 
I  stood  on  the  platform  until  the  train  started,  and  watched  them 
walking  toward  the  ferry,  the  mother  very  feebly,  and  the  child 
skipping  along  with  the  little  basket,  delighted  with  her  new  posses 
sion  ;  then  I  went  back  to  my  seat,  angry  enough  at  myself  because 
I  was  n't  with  them,  when  what  should  I  see  on  the  floor,  under 
their  seat,  but  a  book  they  had  left.  I  have  it  now,  and  I  '11  bring  it 
to  you  to-morrow;  inside  of  the  book  was  a  photograph — a  duplicate 
of  this,  and  on  the  fly-leaf  was  written  'Jane  Chetwynd." 

"  I  thought  so!  I  knew  it  was  Jane!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Lanier 
excitedly.  "  But  she  never  came  here.  Where  could  she  have 
gone  ?  " 

"  That  's  the  mystery.  She  may  have  changed  her  mind  and 
gone  to  a  hotel,  or  something  may  have  happened  to  her.  I  don't 
know.  I  don't  like  to  think  of  it!  However,  the  next  day  I  adver 
tised  the  book,  and  advertised  it  for  a  week  ;  but  it  was  never  claimed, 
and  from  that  day  to  this  I  Ve  never  been  able  to  discover  either  the 
mother  or  the  child." 

"  How  strange,  how  very  strange ! "  said  Mrs.  Lanier,  greatly 
troubled.  "Why  should  she  have  changed  her  mind  so  suddenly? 
If  she  started  to  come  to  me,  why  did  n't  she  come  ?  " 

"  The  only  reasonable  solution  to  the  problem  is  that  she  changed 
her  mind  and  went  on  to  New  York  by  the  night-train.  She  evi 
dently  did  not  go  to  a  hotel,  for  I  have  looked  over  all  the  hotel 


LADY    JANE.  2O? 

registers  of  that  time,  and  her  name  does  not  appear  on  any  of 
them.  So  far  there  is  nothing  very  mysterious ;  she  might  have 
taken  the  night-train." 

"  Oh,  Arthur,  she  probably  did.  Why  do  you  say  she  might 
have  ?  " 

"  Because  you  see  I  have  a  sequel  to  my  story.  You  had  a 
sequel  to  yours,  a  sequel  of  a  box.  Mine  is  a  sequel  of  a  bird — 
the  blue  heron  I  gave  the  little  Lady  Jane.  /  bought  that  same  blue 
heron  from  a  bird-fancier  on  Charter  Street  this  very  morning'' 

"  How  can  you  be  sure  that  it  is  the  same  bird,  Arthur?  How 
can  you  be  sure  ?  " 

"  Because  it  was  marked  in  a  peculiar  way.  It  had  three  distinct 
black  crosses  on  one  wing.  I  knew  the  rogue  as  soon  as  I  saw  him, 
although  he  has  grown  twice  the  size,  and — would  you  believe  it? — 
he  has  the  same  leather  band  on  his  leg  that  I  sewed  on  more  than 
two  years  ago." 

"  And  you  found  out  where  the  fancier  bought  him  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Lanier  breathlessly. 

"  Of  course  I  asked,  the  first  thing,  and  all  the  information  I  could 
get  from  the  merchant  was  that  he  bought  him  from  an  Italian  a  few 
days  before,  who  was  very  anxious  to  sell  him.  When  I  called  the 
bird  by  his  name,  Tony,  he  recognized  it  instantly.  So  you  see  that 
he  has  always  been  called  by  that  name." 

"  The  child  must  have  lost  him,  or  he  must  have  been  stolen. 
Then  the  box,  the  jewel-box  here  too.  Good  heavens  !  Arthur,  what 
can  it  mean  ?  " 

"  It  means  that  Mrs.  Churchill  never  left  New  Orleans,"  said 
Arthur  decidedly. 

"  My  dear  Arthur,  you  alarm  me  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Lanier;  "  there  is 
something  dreadful  behind  all  this.  Go  on,  and  tell  me  everything 
you  know." 


208  LADY    JANE. 

"  Well,  after  I  bought  the  bird,  and  while  I  was  writing  my  address 
for  the  man  to  send  him  home,  a  funny  little  old  Frenchman  came  in, 
and  suddenly  pounced  on  Tony,  and  began  to  jabber  in  the  most 
absurd  way.  I  thought  he  was  crazy  at  first ;  but  after  a  while  I  made 
him  understand  that  the  heron  belonged  to  me ;  and  when  I  had 
calmed  him  down  somewhat  I  gathere.d  from  his  remarks  that  this 
identical  blue  heron  had  been  the  property  of  '  one  leetle  lady,* 
who  formerly  lived  on  Good  Children  Street." 

"  Good  Children  Street,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Lanier;  "what  a 
remarkable  coincidence ! " 

"  That  the  bird  had  been  lost,  and  that  he  had  searched  every 
where  to  find  it  for  the  *  leetle  lady.'  Then  I  asked  him  for  a  descrip 
tion  of  the  *  leetle  lady.'  And,  as  I  live,  Mrs.  Lanier,  he  described  that 
child  to  the  life," — and  Arthur  Maynard  pointed  to  the  photograph 
as  he  spoke. 

"  Oh,  Arthur,  can  it  be  that  Jane  Chetwynd  is  dead?  What  else 
can  it  mean  ?  Where  is  the  child  ?  I  must  see  her.  Will  you  go 
with  me  to  Good  Children  Street  early  to-morrow  ? " 

"  Certainly,  Mrs.  Lanier.  But  she  is  not  there ;  the  old  man 
told  me  a  long  story  of  a  Madame  Jozain,  who  ran  away  with 
the  child." 

"Madame  Jozain!"  cried  Mrs.  Lanier  excitedly — "the  same 
woman  who  had  the  jewel-box." 

"  Evidently  the  same,  and  we  are  on  her  track  —  or  we  should  be, 
if  she  were  alive ;  but  unfortunately  she  's  dead.  The  little  French 
man  says  so,  and  the  child  is  now  in  Margaret's  Orphans'  Home." 

"  Oh,  I  see  it  all  now  !  It  is  as  clear  as  day  to  me ! "  cried  Mrs. 
Lanier,  springing  from  her  chair  and  walking  excitedly  back  and 
forth.  "  It  is  all  explained — the  mysterious  attraction  I  felt  for  that 
child  from  the  first.  Her  eyes,  her  voice,  her  smile  are  Jane  Chet- 
wynd's.  Arthur,  would  you  know  her  again  if  you  saw  her?" 


LADY   JANE.  209 

"  Certainly ;  she  has  n't  grown  out  of  my  recollection  in  two  years, 
though  of  course  she  may  not  resemble  the  photograph  so  much. 
You  see  it  is  four  or  five  years  since  that  was  taken ;  but  she  can't 
have  changed  in  two  years  so  that  I  won't  know  her,  and  I  'm  very 
sure  also  that  she  '11  remember  me." 

"  Well,  come  to-morrow  at  eleven,  and  I  think  I  can  have 
her  here.  The  lovely  child  in  Margaret's  Home,  in  whom  I  have 
felt  such  an  interest,  must  be  the  one.  Her  name  is  Jane.  I  will 
write  to  Margaret  at  once  to  bring  her  here  to-morrow  morning, 
and,  Arthur,  if  you  can  identify  her  she  is  Jane  Chetwynd's  child 
without  a  doubt; — but  Jane — poor  Jane!  What  has  happened  to 
her?  It  is  a  mystery,  and  I  shall  never  rest  until  it  is  explained." 

"  And  perhaps  you  will  hate  me  for  my  stupidity,"  replied  Arthur, 
looking  very  much  cast  down,  as  he  shook  hands  and  said  good 
night. 

"  No,  no,  my  dear  boy.  You  were  not  in  the  least  to  blame,  and 
perhaps  your  generosity  in  giving  Lady  Jane  the  blue  heron  may  be 
the  means  of  restoring  her  to  her  friends." 

Thinking  the  matter  over  from  Mrs.  Lanier's  point  of  view, 
Arthur  went  away  somewhat  comforted,  but  still  very  anxious  about 
the  developments  the  next  day  might  bring  forth. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

LADY    JANE    COMES    TO    HER    OWN 

THE  next  morning,  when  Margaret  brought  little  Jane,  Mrs. 
Lanier  sent  for  them  to  come  to  her  room,  and  there  she 
heard  the  strange  story  that  Paichoux  had  told  Margaret. 

Putting  together  one  thing  and  another,  the  incidents  seemed 
to  form  a  chain  of  which  there  was  only  one  link  missing,  and  that 
was  an  explanation  of  the  mystery  surrounding  the  fate  of  the  young 
mother.  What  had  become  of  her?  And  how  had  Madame  Jozain 
got  possession  of  the  child,  as  well  as  of  the  property  ? 

"  It  is  work  for  a  skilful  detective,"  said  Mrs.  Lanier,  when  Mar 
garet  had  told  her  of  Paichoux's  plan. 

And  Margaret  replied  that,  with  the  aid  of  a  little  money,  the 
snarl  could  soon  be  unraveled. 

"  The  money  will  be  forthcoming,"  returned  Mrs.  Lanier.  "  It  shall 
be  my  sacred  duty  to  begin  an  investigation  as  soon  as  the  child's 
identity  is  established.  Mr.  Lanier  will  interest  himself  with  me, 
and  every  possible  effort  shall  be  made  to  get  at  the  bottom  of 
the  mystery.  Meanwhile,  my  good  Margaret,  you  must  leave  little 
Jane  with  me.  Jane  Chetwynd's  child  must  not  be  dependent  on 
charity." 

To  this  Margaret  readily  agreed,  and  then  Lady  Jane  was  called 
from  the  nursery,  where  she  had  been  with  Mrs.  Lanier's  little  girls 
during  this  long  serious  conversation. 

The  child  came  in  dressed  in  her  homely  orphan's  garb,  with 
all  her  beautiful  hair  braided  and  hanging  stiffly  down  her  back; 
but  she  was  lovely  in  spite  of  her  unlovely  attire,  her  sweet  little 


LADY   JANE.  211 

face  was  dimpled  with  smiles,  and  her  wide  eyes  were  full  of  pleasant 
expectation. 

"  Come  here,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Lanier,  holding  out  her  hands. 
"  Now  tell  me,  which  name  do  you  like  best,  Lady  Jane,  or  simply 
Jane  ? " 

She  hesitated  a  moment  and  looked  wistfully  at  Margaret, 
while  a  slight  shadow  passed  over  her  face.  "/  like  Lady  Jane; 
but  Mother  Margaret  likes  Jane  best." 

Then  Mrs.  Lanier  opened  a  drawer  and  took  out  a  photograph 
in  a  velvet  frame.  "  My  dear,"  she  said,  holding  it  before  her, 
"who  are  these?" 

In  an  instant  the  child's  face  changed ;  every  vestige  of  color 
fled  from  it,  as  she  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  picture  with  a  look  of 
eager  affection  and  pitiful  surprise.  "  It  's  papa  and  mama !  "  she 
exclaimed  passionately.  "  It  's  my  dear,  dear  mama  !  "  Then,  with 
a  cry  of  distress,  she  threw  herself  into  Margaret's  arms  and  sobbed 
bitterly. 

"This  is  proof  enough  for  me,"  said  Mrs.  Lanier,  as  she  laid 
the  picture  away;  "the  recognition  was  instantaneous  and  complete. 
She  is  Jane  Chetwynd's  child.  Margaret,  leave  her  to  me ;  I  will 
love  her  and  comfort  her." 

An  hour  after  Mrs.  Lanier  was  sitting  in  her  library,  writing 
hastily  and  excitedly,  when  the  door-bell  rang,  and,  just  as  she 
was  addressing  a  letter  to  "Richard  Chetwynd,"  Arthur  Maynard 
entered. 

The  boy  looked  quite  pale  and  anxious,  as  he  glanced  at  Mrs. 
Lanier's  flushed,  excited  face. 

"  Don't  ask   me  any  questions ;  just  wait  a  moment,"  she  said, 
with  a  reassuring  smile. 

Presently  there  was  a  sound  of  children's  voices  on  the  stairs, 
and  three  little  girls  entered  the  room  quietly  and  demurely.  They 


212  LADY    JANE. 

were  dressed  exactly  alike  in  dainty  white  frocks  and  broad  sashes ; 
two  were  pale  and  dark ;  they  were  Ethel  and  May  Lanier ;  and  one 
was  fair  and  rosy,  with  wonderful  golden  hair  hanging  in  burnished, 
waving  masses  below  her  waist,  while  the  thick  fringe  across  her 
forehead,  although  it  looked  a  little  refractory,  as  though  it  had 
just  been  cut,  gave  her  a  charmingly  infantile  and  picturesque 
appearance. 

The  moment  the  little  Laniers  saw  Arthur  Maynard  they  ran  to 
him  talking,  and  laughing  gaily,  while  Lady  Jane, —  for  it  was  she, 
quite  metamorphosed  through  the  skill  of  Mrs.  Lanier's  French 
maid,  and  one  of  Ethel's  dainty  suits, —  remained  standing  shyly 
in  the  center  of  the  room. 

Mrs.  Lanier  was  watching  her  sweet  little  face  with  its  puzzled, 
anxious  expression.  She  held  her  hands  tightly  clasped,  and  her 
soft  brows  were  slightly  contracted,  while  she  looked  at  the  merry 
group  with  large,  serious  eyes.  Presently  a  winsome  smile  broke 
over  her  face,  and  going  slowly  forward  she  said  softly :  "  If  you 
please,  are  n't  you  the  boy  who  gave  me  the  blue  heron?" 

Arthur  Maynard  was  quite  beside  himself  with  delight.  Holding 
out  both  hands,  he  drew  her  to  him,  and  putting  his  arm  about  her 
caressingly  he  said  gaily  :  u  Yes,  Lady  Jane,  I  'm  the  very  boy.  And 
so  you  remember  me  ?  I  thought  you  'd  forgotten  me  long  ago." 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  I  had  n't ;  but,"  with  a  little,  tremulous  smile, 
"you  —  you  did  n't  know  me,  did  you?" 

"  Yes,  you  darling,  I  did ;  I  was  only  waiting  to  see  if  you  really 
remembered  me." 

"  Oh,  but  you  did  n't  know  I  saw  you  once  before." 

"  No,  indeed.    When  and  where  was  it?  "  asked  Arthur  eagerly. 

"  It  was  a  long  while  ago.  It  was  Mardi-gras,  and  I  was  lost  ; 
but  you  could  n't  see  me,  because  I  had  on  a  domino,"  replied  Lady 
Jane,  with  dancing  eyes  and  roguish  little  smile.  "  I  called  you,  and 


LADY   JANE.  213 

you  heard  me,  because  you  looked  around;  but  you  could  n't 
see  me." 

"  Well,  I  declare  !  Now  I  remember !  Of  course,  I  could  n't 
guess  that  the  little  pink  crumpled  thing  was  Lady  Jane.  Why 
did  n't  you  call  me  again  ? " 

"  Oh,"  with  a  little  sigh.  "  I  thought  maybe  you  did  n't  remem 
ber  me  ? " 

"  As  if  I  could  ever  forget;  but  where  is  Tony  ?  have  you  given 
him  away  ? "  and  he  looked  into  her  eyes  with  a  smile. 

"  No,  I  did  n't  give  him  away.  I  loved  him  too  much  to  give 
him  to  any  one ;  but  he  's  lost.  He  broke  his  string,  while  I  was 
out  singing,  and  Tante  Pauline  was  too  lame  to  catch  him,  and 
I  searched  and  looked  everywhere  for  him,  and  then  I  could  n't 
sing  any  more  — and — "  and  here  she  paused,  flushing  deeply  while 
the  tears  gathered  on  her  lashes. 

"  She  's  j^ist  the  same  adorable  little  creature,"  whispered  Arthur 
to  Mrs.  Lanier,  while  he  stroked  her  hair  softly.  Then  he  bent  over 
her  and  asked  her  very  earnestly  and  gravely : 

"  Do  you  remember  that  day  on  the  cars,  Lady  Jane,  when  I  gave 
you  Tony  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes, —  or  I  would  n't  know  you,"  she  replied  ingenuously. 

"  Well,  your  mama  was  with  you  then.     Where  is  she  now  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  with  a  very  sad  sigh,  "  I  don't  know;  she  's  gone  away. 
I  thought  she  'd  come  back,  and  I  waited  and  waited ;  but  now  I 
don't  look  any  more.  I  think  she  's  with  papa,  and  is  n't  coming 
back." 

"  When  did  she  go?  My  darling,  try  to  remember  about  your 
mama,"  urged  Mrs.  Lanier  gently. 

"  It  was  so  long  ago,  I  can't  tell  when  it  was,"  she  said  dejectedly. 
"  I  was  ill,  and  when  I  got  well  Tante  Pauline  said  she  had  gone." 

"  Was  it  in  Good  Children  Street  that  she  went?" 


214  LADY    JANE. 

"  No.  It  was  before.  It  was  away  across  the  river,  because  Tante 
Pauline,  and  Mr.  Raste,  and  I,  and  Tony  in  his  basket,  all  came  in  a 
big  boat/' 

"  You  see  Jane  Chetwynd  never  left  Gretna,"  said  Mrs.  Lanier 
In  an  awe-struck  voice. 

"  Where  is  Tante  Pauline  now?"  continued  Arthur. 

"  I  don't  know.   I  ran  away,  and  I  have  n't  seen  her  for  ever  so  long." 

"  Why  did  you  run  away  from  her  ?     Did  n't  you  love  her? " 

"  No,  no  !  Please  don't  ask  me, — please  don't,"  and  suddenly  she 
covered  her  little  flushed,  troubled  face  with  both  hands  and  began  to 
cry  silently. 

"  We  must  n't  question  her  any  more,  Arthur,"  said  Mrs.  Lanier 
softly,  as  she  soothed  the  child.  "  Her  little  heart  has  been  probed 
to  the  very  depths.  She  is  a  noble  little  soul,  and  she  won't  utter  a 
complaint  against  that  wretched  woman." 

"  Never  mind,  my  darling ;  forget  all  about  Tante  Pauline.  You 
will  never  see  her  again,  and  no  one  shall  make  you  unhappy.  You 
are  my  child  now,  and  you  shall  stay  with  me  always,  and  to-morrow 
we  are  going  to  buy  Christmas  presents  for  all  your  friends  in  Good 
Children  Street." 

"  And  I  " — whispered  Arthur,  pressing  his  cheek  close  against  her 
golden  head  —  "I  have  a  Christmas  present  for  you  ;  so  wipe  away 
your  tears,  and  prepare  to  be  very  happy." 

"  I  have  just  written  to  her  grandfather,"  said  Mrs.  Lanier,  after 
they  had  sent  her  away  to  the  children,  all  smiles  and  dimples  again. 
"  I  see  by  the  papers  that  he  has  returned  from  Europe.  There  's 
not  the  least  doubt  that  she  is  Jane's  child,  and,  if  he  has  any  heart, 
he  '11  come  and  investigate  this  mystery.  I  don't  dare  to  do  anything 
until  I  hear  from  him." 

"  That  will  be  very  soon;  he  will  probably  be  here  in  a  day  or  two, 
for  he  is  on  his  way  now." 

"  Arthur,  what  do  you  mean  ?     How  has  he  heard  ?  " 


LADY   JANE.  215 

"  Oh,  Lady  Jane  has  a  great  many  friends  who  are  deeply  inter 
ested  in  her.  Paichoux,  the  dairyman,  has  been  in  correspondence 
with  the  millionaire,  and  I  have  been  interviewing  Paichoux.  The 
little  Frenchman  put  me  on  Paichoux's  track.  It  seems  that  Paichoux 
got  Mrs.  Churchill's  watch  from  Madame  Jozain's  son,  and  Paichoux 
was  inspired  to  write  to  the  jeweler  in  New  York,  whose  name  and 
the  number  of  the  watch  were  on  the  inside  of  the  case,  to  find  out 
for  whom  that  especial  watch  was  made.  After  some  delay  a  letter 
came  from  Mr.  Richard  Chetwynd  himself,  telling  Paichoux  that  the 
watch  was  made  for  his  daughter  Jane  Chetwynd.  The  jeweler  had 
forwarded  Paichoux's  letter  to  Mr.  Chetwynd,  who  was  in  Paris,  and 
the  millionaire  has  hastened  home  to  investigate,  which  is  a  favorable 
omen  for  Lady  Jane." 

The  next  day,  the  day  before  Christmas,  and  just  one  year  from 
the  time  when  Lady  Jane  sat  on  the  church  steps  eating  the  bread 
and  apple  supplied  her  by  a  charitable  impulse,  she  was  making 
almost  a  royal  progress  in  Mrs.  Lanier's  carriage,  as  lovely  in  her 
rich  dress  as  a  little  fairy,  and  every  bit  as  much  admired  as  Pepsie 
had  predicted  she  would  be  when,  in  the  future,  she  should  ride  in  a 
blue  chariot  drawn  by  eight  white  horses.  Mrs.  Lanier's  generosity 
allowed  her  to  remember  every  one  with  suitable  gifts,  and  her  visit 
to  Good  Children  Street  was  something  to  be  long  remembered. 
Mrs.  Lanier  almost  blushed  with  shame  and  regret  when  she  found 
herself  once  more  in  the  presence  of  Diana  d'Hautreve,  to  think  that 
for  all  these  years  she  had  forgotten  one  who  was  once  a  queen  in 
society  both  by  right  of  birth  and  wealth.  "It  is  unpardonable  in 
me,"  she  said  to  herself  when  she  saw  the  gentle,  lonely  woman  hold 
the  child  to  her  heart  so  fondly.  "  It  is  unpardonable  to  forget  and 
neglect  one  so  entirely  worthy  of  the  best,  simply  because  she  is  poor. 
However,  now  that  I  have  discovered  her  through  Lady  Jane,  I  will 
try  to  make  up  for  the  indifference  of  years,  by  every  attention  that  I 
can  show  her." 


2l6  LADY    JANE. 

While  these  thoughts  were  passing  through  Mrs.  Lanier's  mind, 
Lady  Jane  was  unfolding  before  Mam'selle  Diane's  dazzled  eyes  a 
rich  mourning  silk.  "  You  must  have  it  made  right  away,"  she  whis 
pered,  pressing  her  rosy  cheek  to  her  friend's,  "  for  Mrs.  Lanier  says 
you  will  visit  your  friends  again,  and  I  want  you  to  wear  my  Christ 
mas  present  the  first  time  you  go  out." 

Then  Pepsie  was  made  happy  with  a  beautiful  wheeled  chair  for 
the  street,  which  was  so  arranged  with  numerous  springs  that  she 
could  be  lifted  over  rough  places  without  hurting  her  poor  back,  and 
Madelon  was  the  recipient  of  a  beautiful  warm  cloak,  and  Tile's  love 
of  finery  was  fully  gratified  by  a  gay  hat  "wid  fedders  on  it."  Little 
Gex  was  fitted  out  with  a  supply  of  useful  articles,  and  the  Paichoux, 
one  and  all,  were  remembered  with  gifts  suitable  for  each;  while  the 
orphans'  Christmas  tree  was  loaded  with  presents  from  Lady  Jane, 
who  only  the  year  before  had  clung  to  the  railings,  cold  and  hungry, 
and  peeped  in  at  the  glittering  display  which  was  being  prepared  for 
other  little  orphans  not  half  as  friendless  and  needy  as  she  was. 

And  the  homely,  kind  face  of  Margaret  fairly  shone  with  happi 
ness,  as  she  watched  her  little  favorite  dispensing  her  pretty  gifts  with 
a  beaming  smile  of  love  and  good-will  to  all. 

And  there  was  one  hour  of  that  happy  Christmas  eve  that  Lady 
Jane  never  forgot.  It  was  when  Margaret  took  her  into  the  chapel 
and  bade  her  kneel  before  the  statue  of  our  Saviour,  who  was  once  a 
little  child,  and  thank  him  devoutly  for  all  the  good  things  that  had 
come  to  her.  Then,  when  she  rose  from  her  knees,  the  sister  who 
had  taught  her  music  played  a  sweet  Ave  Maria  on  the  organ,  and 
,  the  child's  angelic  voice  rose  upward  in  a  rapturous  song  of  praise 
and  adoration ;  while  Margaret  knelt,  with  bowed  head  and  clasped 
hands,  patient,  humble,  resigned,  but  yet  sorrowful  at  losing  the  lamb 
she  had  taken  to  her  heart  and  cherished  so  tenderly. 


CHAPTER   XXXII 

A    MERRY    CHRISTMAS 

IT  was  Christmas  evening,  and  Mrs.  Lanier's  beautiful  house 
was  bright  with  lights  and  flowers,  and  merry  with  music  and 
laughter. 

There  were,  besides  the  little  Laniers  and  Lady  Jane,  a  dozen 
children  or  more,  who  had  been  invited  to  see  the  wonderful 
Christmas-tree,  which  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lanier  and  Arthur  Maynard 
had  spent  a  good  part  of  the  day  in  decorating.  It  stood  at  one 
end  of  the  drawing-room,  and  its  broad  branches  were  fairly  bend 
ing  beneath  the  treasures  heaped  upon  them.  It  glowed  and 
sparkled  with  the  light  of  a  hundred  wax  candles,  reflected  over 
and  over  by  innumerable  brilliant  objects  until  it  seemed  like 
Moses's  burning  bush,  all  fire  and  flame;  and  amid  this  radiant 
mass  of  color  and  light  were  the  most  beautiful  gifts  for  every 
member  of  the  family,  as  well  as  for  the  happy  little  visitors.  But 
the  object  which  attracted  the  most  curiosity  and  interest  was  a  large 
basket  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  tree. 

"  Whom  is  that  basket  for,  papa?"  asked  Ethel  Lanier  of  her 
father,  who  was  unfastening  and  distributing  the  presents. 

"  We  shall  see  presently,  my  dear,"  replied  Mr.  Lanier,  glancing 
at  Lady  Jane,  who  stood,  a  radiant  little  figure,  beside  Arthur  May 
nard,  watching  every  movement  with  sparkling  eyes  and  dimpling 
smiles. 

At  last,  with  a  great  deal  of  difficulty,  the  basket  was  untied, 
and  Mr.  Lanier  read  in  a  loud,  distinct  voice  from  a  card  attached 


217 


2l8  LADY    JANE. 

to  it,  "  For  Lady  Jane  Churchill.     With  Arthur  Maynard's  love  and 
good  wishes." 

"  There,  I  thought  it  was  for  Lady  Jane,"  cried  Ethel  delightedly. 
"  I  know  it  's  something  lovely." 

Mr.  Lanier,  with  no  little  ceremony,  handed  the  basket  to 
Arthur,  who  took  it  and  gave  it  to  Lady  Jane  with  a  low  bow. 

"  I  hope  you  will  like  my  present,"  he  said,  smiling  brightly, 
while  he  helped  the  wondering  child  untie  the  strings  that  fastened 
the  cover. 

Her  little  face  was  a  study  of  mingled  curiosity  and  expectancy, 
and  her  eyes  sparkled  with  eagerness  as  she  bent  over  the  basket. 

"  It 's  so  large.  What  can  it  be  ?  Oh,  oh  !  It 's  Tony  !  "  she  cried, 
as  the  cover  was  lifted,  and  the  bird  hopped  gravely  out  and  stood 
on  one  leg,  winking  and  blinking  in  the  dazzling  light.  "  It  's 
Tony  !  dear,  dear  Tony  ! "  and  in  an  instant  she  was  on  her  knees 
hugging  and  kissing  the  bird  passionately. 

"  I  told  you  I  would  find  him  for  you,"  whispered  Arthur,  bend 
ing  over  her,  almost  as  happy  as  she. 

"And  you  knew  him  by  the  three  little  crosses,  did  n't  you? 
Oh,  you  're  so  good,  and  I  thank  you  so  much,"  she  said,  lifting 
her  lovely,  grateful  eyes  to  the  boy's  face.  She  was  smiling,  but  a 
tear  glistened  on  her  lashes. 

"  What  a  darling  she  is  ! "  said  Mrs.  Lanier  fondly.  "  Is  n't  it 
pretty  to  see  her  with  the  bird?  Really  it  is  an  exquisite  picture." 

She  was  like  an  anxious  mother  over  a  child  that  had  just  been 
restored  to  her.  "  You  know  me,  Tony,  don't  you  ?  and  you  're  glad 
to  see  me  ? "  she  asked,  over  and  over,  while  she  stroked  his  feathers 
and  caressed  him  in  the  tenderest  way. 

"  Do  you  think  he  remembers  you,  Lady  Jane?"  asked  Mr.  Lanier, 
who  was  watching  her  with  a  smile  of  amusement. 

"  Oh  yes,  I  know  he  does;  Tony  could  n't  forget  me.  I  'm  sure 
he  '11  come  to  me  if  I  call  him." 


LADY   JANE.  221 

"  Please  try  him.     Oh,  do  try  him!"  cried  Ethel  and  May. 

Mr.  Lanier  took  the  bird  and  placed  him  behind  a  chair  at  the 
extreme  end  of  the  room,  where  he  stood  gravely  blinking  and  nod 
ding,  but  the  moment  he  heard  Lady  Jane's  little  chirp,  and  "  Tony, 
Tony,"  he  ran  fluttering  to  her  and  nestled  close  against  her. 

Every  one  was  pleased  with  this  exhibition  of  the  bird's  intelli 
gence,  and  the  children  were  quite  wild  over  the  new  acquisition. 
The  other  presents  were  forgotten  for  the  moment,  and  they  could 
do  nothing  but  watch  every  movement  with  admiration  and  wonder. 
To  Lady  Jane  the  recovery  of  her  lost  treasure  was  the  crown 
ing  point  of  happiness,  and  she  consented  reluctantly  to  leave  him 
alone  in  the  conservatory,  where  he  was  to  spend  the  night,  and 
where  he  looked  very  comfortable,  as  well  as  picturesque,  standing 
on  one  leg  under  a  large  palm. 

"  Does  n't  she  dance  like  a  little  fairy!"  said  Arthur  admiringly 
to  Mrs.  Lanier,  as  they  stood,  a  little  later,  watching  the  children 
dancing. 

"  Yes,  she  is  very  graceful  and  altogether  charming,"  replied  Mrs. 
Lanier.  "  It  is  delightful  to  see  her  so  happy  after  all  she  has 
suffered." 

"  I  don't  imagine  she  will  care  half  as  much  for  her  rich  grandfather 
as  she  does  for  Tony,"  returned  Arthur.  "  You  see  she  's  acquainted 
with  Tony,  and  she  is  n't  acquainted  with  her  grandfather.  I  hope 
he  '11  be  decent  to  her,"  he  added  anxiously. 

"  It  is  almost  time  for  him  to  be  here,"  said  Mrs.  Lanier,  glancing 
at  the  clock.  "  Mr.  Lanier  will  meet  him  at  the  station  and  bring 
him  here,  if  he  will  accept  our  hospitality.  I  '11  confess  I  'm  filled 
with  consternation.  He  used  to  be  such  a  stern,  cold  man  ;  he  never 
even  softened  to  Jane's  young  friends ;  he  was  polite  and  kind,  but 
never  genial,  and  I  dare  say  he  has  quite  forgotten  me.  It  's  a  trial 
for  me  to  meet  him  with  this  awful  mystery  hanging  over  Jane's  last 


222  LADY   JANE. 

days.  Oh,  I  hope  he  will  take  kindly  to  the  child!  He  idolized  her 
mother  before  she  thwarted  his  plans,  and  now  I  should  think  his 
remorse  would  be  terrible,  and  that  he  would  do  everything  to  atone 
for  his  unkindness." 

"  I  have  faith  in  Lady  Jane,"  laughed  Arthur.  "  It  must  be  a 
hard  heart  to  withstand  her  winning  ways.  I  '11  wager  before  a 
week  that  the  old  millionaire  will  be  her  devoted  slave." 

Just  at  that  moment  a  servant  entered,  and  handed  Mrs.  Lanier 
a  card.  "  It  is  Mr.  Chetwynd,"  she  said  to  Arthur.  "  They  have 
come;  he  is  in  the  library,  and  Mr.  Lanier  asks  me  to  bring  the 
child." 

A  few  moments  later,  Mrs.  Lanier  led  Lady  Jane  into  the  room 
where  Richard  Chetwynd  waited  to  receive  her.  He  was  a  tall,  pale 
man,  with  deep,  piercing  eyes,  and  firmly  closed  lips,  which  gave 
character  to  a  face  that  did  not  lack  kindliness  of  expression.  As 
she  advanced  a  little  constrainedly,  holding  the  child  by  the  hand, 
he  came  forward  to  meet  her  with  an  air  of  friendly  interest. 

"  Perhaps  you  have  forgotten  me,  Mrs.  Lanier,"  he  said,  cordially 
extending  his  hand,  "  but  I  remember  you,  although  it  is  some  time 
ago  that  you  used  to  dine  with  my  daughter  in  Gramercy  Park." 

"  Oh  no,  I  have  not  forgotten  you,  Mr.  Chetwynd ;  but  I  hardly 
expected  you  to  recall  me  among  all  Jane's  young  friends." 

"  I  do.  I  do  perfectly,"  he  replied,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  Lady 
Jane,  who  clung  to  Mrs.  Lanier  and  looked  at  the  tall,  grave  stranger 
with  timid  scrutiny. 

Then  he  held  out  his  hand  to  the  child.  "And  this  is  Jane 
Chetwynd's  daughter.  There  is  no  doubt  of  it.  She  is  the  image 
of  her  mother,"  he  said  in  a  low,  restrained  voice.  "  I  was  not  pre 
pared  to  see  such  a  living  proof.  She  is  my  little  Jane  as  she  was 
when  a  child — my  little  Jane  —  my  darling!  Mrs.  Lanier,  will  you 
excuse  me !  —  the  sight  of  her  has  quite  unnerved  me  "  ;  and  suddenly 


LADY    JANE.  223 

sinking  into  a  chair  he  pressed  the  child  to  his  heart  and  hid  his  face 
on  her  bright  golden  head. 

What  passed  between  Lady  Jane  and  her  grandfather,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Lanier  never  knew,  for  they  slipped  quietly  out  of  the  room,  and 
left  the  cold,  stern  man  alone  with  the  last  of  his  family — the  child  of 
that  idolized  but  disobedient  daughter,  who  had  caused  him  untold 
sorrow,  and  whom  he  had  never  forgiven  until  that  moment,  when 
he  held  in  his  arms,  close  to  his  heart,  the  child,  her  living  image. 

It  was  some  time  before  Mr.  Chetwynd  appeared,  and  when  he 
did  he  was  as  cold  and  self-possessed  as  if  he  had  never  felt  a  throb 
of  emotion,  or  shed  a  tear  of  sorrow  on  the  pretty  head  of  the  child, 
who  held  his  hand,  and  prattled  as  freely  and  confidingly  as  though 
she  had  known  him  always. 

"  What  will  Mother  Margaret  say,"  she  exclaimed,  looking  at  Mrs. 
Lanier  with  wide,  glistening  eyes,  "  when  I  tell  her  that  I  Ve  found 
Tony  and  my  grandpapa  both  in  one  Christmas  ?  I  never  saw  a 
grandpapa  before.  Pepsie  read  to  me  about  one  in  a  book,  and  he 
was  very  cross  ;  but  this  one  is  n't.  I  think  he  's  very  good,  because 
he  says  that  he  will  give  me  everything  I  wish,  and  I  know  I  shall 
love  him  a  great  deal." 

"  Now,  Lady  Jane,  confess  to  me,  and  I  '11  never  tell,"  whispered 
Arthur  with  an  air  of  great  secrecy.  "  Which  do  you  love  best,  Tony 
or  your  new  grandpapa  ?  " 

She  raised  her  clear  eyes  to  the  roguish  face  of  the  boy  with 
a  little  perplexed  smile,  and  then  replied  unhesitatingly:  "Well,  I  Ve 
known  Tony  longer,  but  I  think  I  '11  love  my  grandpapa  as  well  by 
and  by,  because,  you  know,  he  's  my  grandpapa." 

Arthur  laughed  heartily  at  the  clever  way  in  which  she  evaded 
the  question,  and  remarked  to  Mrs.  Lanier  that  Lady  Jane  would 
wind  her  grandfather  around  her  little  finger  before  a  month  was 
over.  Which  prediction  was  likely  to  prove  true,  for  Mr.  Chetwynd 


224  LADY   JANE. 

did  not  seem  to  have  any  other  interest  in  life  than  to  gratify  every 
wish  the  child  expressed. 

"  She  has  taken  complete  possession  of  me,"  he  said  to  Mrs. 
Lanier,  "  and  now  my  greatest  happiness  will  be  to  make  her  happy. 
She  is  all  I  have,  and  I  shall  try  to  find  in  her  the  comfort  her  mother 
deprived  me  of." 

In  spite  of  his  affection  for  the  child,  his  feelings  did  not  soften 
toward  the  mother  ;  he  could  not  forget  that  she  had  disappointed 
him  and  preferred  a  stranger  to  him ;  that  she  had  given  up  wealth 
and  position  to  bury  herself  in  obscurity  with  a  man  he  hated.  It 
was  a  bitter  thought,  yet  he  would  spare  no  pains  to  solve  the  mys 
tery  that  hung  over  her  last  days. 

Money  and  influence  together  soon  put  the  machinery  of  the 
law  in  motion  ;  therefore  it  was  not  a  month  after  Mr.  Chetwynd's 
arrival  in  New  Orleans  before  everything  was  as  clear  as  day.  The 
young  widow  was  traced  to  Madame  Jozain's  ;  there  were  many  who 
remembered  her  death  and  funeral.  The  physician's  certificate  at 
the  Board  of  Health  bore  the  name  of  Dr.  Debrot,  who  was  found, 
and  interviewed  during  one  of  his  lucid  moments  ;  he  described  the 
young  mother  and  child,  and  even  remembered  the  blue  hercn  ;  and 
his  testimony,  sad  though  it  was,  was  still  a  comfort  to  Jane  Chet 
wynd's  friends.  She  had  died  of  the  same  fever  that  killed  her 
husband,  and  she  had  been  carefully  nursed  and  decently  buried. 
Afterward,  the  Bergeron  tomb  was  opened,  the  remains  identified, 
and  then  sent  to  New  York  to  rest  with  her  mother,  in  the  stately 
Chetwynd  tomb,  in  Greenwood  cemetery. 

Then  a  careful  search  was  made  for  her  personal  effects,  but 
nothing  was  recovered  except  the  watch  that  Paichoux  was  fortunate 
enough  to  secure.  Mr.  Chetwynd  handed  Paichoux  a  large  check  in 
exchange  for  it,  but  the  honest  man  refused  to  take  any  more  than  he 
had  paid  Raste  Jozain  in  order  to  get  possession  of  it.  However,  the 


LADY   JANE   AND    HER    GRANDFATHER. 


LADY    JANE.  227 

millionaire  proved  that  he  was  not  ungrateful  nor  lacking  in  appre 
ciation,  when  he  presented  him  with  a  rich,  plain  watch  suitably 
inscribed,  from  the  donor  to  a  most  worthy  friend.  And  when 
the  pretty  Marie  was  married,  she  received  from  the  same  jeweler 
who  made  the  watch  an  exquisite  silver  tea-service,  which  was  the 
pride  of  her  life,  and  which  was  cherished  not  only  for  its  value,  but 
because  it  was  a  gift  from  Lady  Jane's  grandpapa. 

Mr.  Chetwynd  made  a  number  of  visits  to  Good  Children  Street 
in  company  with  Mrs.  Lanier  and  Lady  Jane,  and  there  were  a  great 
many  long  conversations  between  Mam'selle  Diane,  the  millionaire, 
and  the  banker's  wife,  while  Lady  Jane  played  with  her  jolly  little 
friend,  the  canary,  among  the  branches  of  the  rose-bush.  During 
these  conversations  there  was  a  great  deal  of  argument  and  anxious 
urging  on  the  part  of  the  visitors,  and  a  great  many  excuses  and 
much  self-depreciation  on  the  part  of  the  gentle,  faded  lady. 

"  I  have  been  buried  so  long,"  she  would  say  pathetically,  "  that 
the  great  world  will  appal  and  confuse  me.  I  shall  be  like  a  blind 
person  suddenly  made  sensible  of  the  light." 

"  But  you  will  soon  become  accustomed  to  the  light,"  urged  Mrs, 
Lanier. 

"  And  I  might  long  for  seclusion  again  ;  at  my  age  one  cannot 
easily  change  one's  habits." 

"  You  shall  have  all  the  seclusion  you  wish  for,"  said  Mr.  Chet 
wynd  kindly. 

"  Besides  I  am  so  old-fashioned,"  murmured  Mam'selle  Diane, 
blushing  deeply. 

"  A  quality  which  I  greatly  admire,"  returned  Mr.  Chetwynd,  with 
a  courtly  bow. 

"  And  think  how  Lady  Jane  loves  you,"  said  Mrs.  Lanier,  as  if  to 
clinch  the  argument. 


228  LADY    JANE. 

"  Yes  ;  my  love  for  her  and  hers  for  me  are  the  strongest  points 
in  the  situation,"  replied  Mam'selle  Diane  reflectively;  "when  I  think 
of  that  I  can  hardly  refuse  to  comply  with  your  wishes." 

At  that  time  it  seemed  as  if  Lady  Jane  acted  the  part  of  fairy 
godmother  to  those  who  had  been  her  friends  in  her  days  of  adver 
sity  ;  for  each  one  had  only  to  express  a  wish  and  it  was  gratified. 

Pepsie's  cottage  in  the  country  was  about  to  become  a  reality. 
In  one  of  the  charming  shady  lanes  of  Carrollton  they  found  just 
such  a  bowery  little  spot  as  the  girl  wished  for,  with  a  fine  strip  of 
land  for  a  garden.  One  day  Mr.  Chetwynd  and  Lady  Jane  went 
down  to  Good  Children  Street  and  gave  the  deed  of  it  to  Mademoi 
selle  Madelon  Modeste  Ferri,  which  was  Pepsie's  baptismal  name, 
although  she  had  never  been  called  by  it  in  all  her  life.  The  little 
cripple  was  so  astonished  and  delighted  that  she  could  find  no  words 
of  thanks;  but  after  a  few  moments  of  very  expressive  silence  she 
exclaimed:  "After  all,  my  cards  were  right,  for  they  told  me  over 
and  over  that  I  should  go  to  live  in  the  country;  and  now  I  'm  going, 
thanks  to  Lady  Jane." 

When  little  Gex  was  asked  what  he  most  wished  for  in  the 
world,  he  hesitated  for  a  long  time,  and  finally  confessed  that  the 
desire  of  his  life  was  to  go  back  to  Paris. 

"  Well,  you  shall  go,  Mr.  Gex,"  said  Lady  Jane  confidently, 
"  and  I  shall  see  you  there,  because  I  'm  going  to  Paris  with  grand 
papa  very  soon." 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  Gex  went,  and  the  little  shop  in  Good 
Children  Street  saw  him  no  more  forever. 

And  Margaret  —  the  good  Margaret.  What  could  Lady  Jane 
do  for  her  ?  Only  the  noble  woman  and  the  destitute  orphans  could 
testify  to  the  generous  aid  that  came  yearly  in  the  shape  of  a  check 
for  a  large  amount  from  Lady  Jane  for  dear  Mother  Margaret's 
home. 


LADY   JANE.  229 

"  And  Mam'selle  Diane, —  dear  Mam'selle !  what  can  I  give  her  ?  " 
asked  Lady  Jane  eagerly. 

"  We  have  our  plans  for  Mam'selle  Diane,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
Lanier.  "  There  is  only  one  thing  to  do  for  her,  and  that  is  to 
take  her  with  you.  Your  grandpapa  has  begged  her  to  take  charge 
of  your  education.  Poor,  lonely  woman  ;  she  loves  you  dearly,  and 
in  spite  of  her  reluctance  to  leave  her  seclusion,  I  think  she  would  go 
to  the  world's  end  with  you." 

And  so  it  was  arranged  that  when  Mr.  Chetwynd  and  Lady  Jane 
left  New  Orleans,  Mam'selle  Diane  d'Hautreve  went  with  them,  and 
the  little  house  and  tiny  garden  were  left  to  solitude,  while  the  jolly 
canary  was  sent  to  keep  Tony  company  in  Mrs.  Lanier's  conservatory. 


CHAPTER   XXXIII 

AS    IT    IS    NOW 

A.  this  happened  years  ago,  some  ten  or  twelve,  more  or  less, 
and  there  have  been  many  changes  in  that  time. 
In  front  of  the  iron  railing  where  Lady  Jane  clung  on 
that  cold  Christmas  eve,  peering  into  the  warmth  and  light  of  the 
Orphans'  Home,  there  is  now  a  beautiful  little  park,  with  magnolias, 
oaks,  fragrant  white  jasmine,  and  pink  flowering  crape-myrtle.  The 
grass  is  green,  and  the  trees  make  shadows  on  the  pretty  little  pond, 
the  tiled  bridge  and  shelled  walks,  the  cactus  and  palmetto.  Flowers 
bloom  there  luxuriantly,  the  birds  sing  merrily,  and  it  is  a  spot 
beloved  of  children.  Always  their  joyous  laugh  can  be  heard 
mingled  with  the  songs  of  birds  and  the  distant  hum  of  many  little 
voices  in  the  Orphans'  Home  a  few  paces  away. 

In  the  center  of  that  square  on  a  green  mound,  bordered  with 
flowers,  stands  a  marble  pedestal,  and  on  that  pedestal  is  a  statue. 
It  is  the  figure  of  a  woman,  seated  and  holding  a  little  orphan  to  her 
heart.  The  woman  has  a  plain,  homely  face,  the  thin  hair  is  combed 
back  austerely  from  the  broad  forehead,  the  eyes  are  deep-set,  the 
features  coarse,  the  mouth  wide.  She  is  no  high-born  dame  of 
delicate  mold,  but  a  woman  of  the  people — untaught,  honest,  simple, 
industrious.  Her  plain  gown  falls  around  her  in  scanty  lines  ;  over 
her  shoulders  is  modestly  folded  a  little  shawl ;  her  hands,  that  caress 
the  orphan  at  her  side,  are  large  and  rough  with  honest  toil;  but  her 
face,  and  her  whole  plain  figure,  is  beautiful  with  purity  and  goodness. 
It  is  Margaret,  the  orphans'  friend,  who,  though  a  destitute  orphan 


230 


LADY    JANE. 


23I 


herself,  by  her  own  virtue  and  industry  earned  the  wealth  to  found 
homes  and  asylums,  to  feed  and  clothe  the  indigent,  to  save  the 
wretched  and  forsaken,  and  to  merit  the  title  of  Mother  to  the 
Motherless. 

And  there  sits  her  marble  image,  through  summer's  heat  and 
winter's  cold,  serene  and  gentle,  under  the  shadow  of  the  home  she 
founded,  and  in  sound  of  the  little  voices  that  she  loved  so  well ;  and 
there  she  will  sit  when  those  voices  are  silent  and  those  active  little 


LADY   JANE   AND    MAM'SELLE    D'HAUTREVE    BEFORE    THE    STATUE    OF    MOTHER    MARGARET. 

forms  are  dust,  as  a  monument  of  honest,  simple  virtue  and  charity, 
as  well  as  an  enduring  testimony  to  the  nobility  of  the  women  who 
erected  this  statue  in  respectful  recognition  of  true  greatness  under 
the  homely  guise  of  honest  toil. 

If  one  of  my  young  readers  should  happen  near  this  spot  just 
at  the  right  moment  on  some  fine  evening  in  early  spring,  he  or  she 
might  chance  to  notice  an  elegant  carriage  drawn  by  two  fine  horses, 


232  LADY    JANE. 

and  driven  by  a  sleek  darky  in  plain  livery,  make  the  circuit  of  the 
place  and  then  draw  up  near  the  statue  of  Margaret,  while  its  occu 
pants,  an  elderly  woman  of  gentle  and  distinguished  appearance,  and 
a  beautiful  young  girl,  study  the  homely,  serene  face  of  the  orphans* 
friend. 

Presently  the  girl  says  reverently,  "  Dear  Mother  Margaret ! 
She  was  a  saint,  if  earth  ever  knew  one." 

"  Yes  ;  she  was  a  noble  woman,  and  she  came  from  the  poor  and 
lowly.  My  dear,  she  is  an  example  of  a  great  truth,  which  may 
be  worthy  of  consideration.  It  is,  that  virtue  and  purity  do  not 
disdain  to  dwell  in  the  meanest  shrine,  and  that  all  the  titles  and 
wealth  of  earth  could  not  ennoble  her  as  her  own  saintly  character 
has  done." 

The  occupants  of  the  carriage  are  Lady  Jane  and  Mam'selle 
Diane  d'Hautreve. 

The  beautiful  child  is  now  a  beautiful  girl  of  seventeen.  Her 
education  is  finished,  and  she  has  not  disappointed  the  expectations 
of  her  friends.  At  home  and  abroad  she  is  not  only  known  as  the 
Chetwynd  heiress,  but  also  for  her  many  accomplishments,  as  well  as 
for  her  beauty  and  charitableness.  And  her  wonderful  voice,  which 
time  has  enriched  and  strengthened,  is  a  constant  delight  to  those  who 
hear  it,  although  it  is  never  heard  in  public,  save  in  the  service  of  God, 
or  for  some  work  of  charity.  The  poor  and  the  lowly,  the  sick  and 
the  dying  have  often  been  carried  to  the  very  gates  of  heaven  on  its 
melodious  strains,  and  the  good  sisters  and  grateful  little  orphans  in 
Margaret's  Home  count  it  a  day  long  to  be  remembered  when  Lady 
Jane  sits  down  among  them  and  sings  some  of  the  hymns  that  she 
loved  so  well  in  those  old  days  when  she  herself  was  a  homeless 
little  orphan. 

Mr.  Chetwynd  still  likes  to  spend  part  of  the  year  in  Paris ;  but 
he  has  purchased  a  beautiful  winter  home  in  one  of  the  lovely  streets 


LADY   JANE.  233 

in  the  garden  district,  not  far  from  Mrs.  Lanier,  and  Lady  Jane  and 
Mam'selle  Diane  spend  several  months  every  spring  in  its  delightful 
seclusion. 

And  here  Madelon  comes  to  bring  her  delicious  cakes,  which  she 
now  sells  to  private  customers  instead  of  having  a  stand  on  the  Rue 
Bourbon  ;  and  Tante  Modeste  often  rattles  up  in  her  milk  cart,  a 
little  older,  a  little  stouter,  but  with  the  same  bright  face;  and  on  the 
same  seat  where  Lady  Jane  used  to  sit  is  one  of  Marie's  little  ones, 
instead  of  one  of  her  own.  "  Only  think,  my  dear,"  she  says  proudly, 
"Tiburce  has  graduated,  and  now  he  is  studying  law  with  Marie's 
husband,  who  is  rising  fast  in  his  profession." 

But  among  all  her  happy  hours  there  are  none  pleasanter  than 
those  she  spends  with  Pepsie  in  the  pretty  cottage  at  Carrollton,  when 
the  bright-faced  little  cripple,  who  seems  hardly  a  day  older,  spreads 
out  her  beautiful  needlework  and  expatiates  eloquently  on  the  fine 
results  she  obtains  from  the  Paris  patterns  and  exquisite  material 
with  which  she  is  constantly  supplied.  She  is  a  natural  little  artist 
with  the  needle,  her  dainty  work  sells  readily  and  profitably,  and  she 
is  in  a  fair  way  to  become  rich.  "  Just  think,"  she  says  with  one  of 
her  broad  smiles,  "  I  could  buy  a  piano  now  myself,  if  I  wanted  to, 
and  perhaps  I  shall,  so  that  you  can  play  to  me  when  you  come." 

During  sunny  mornings,  on  a  certain  lawn  in  the  garden  district, 
there  is  nearly  always  a  merry  party  playing  tennis,  while  a  gentle- 
faced  woman  sits  near  holding  a  book,  which  she  seldom  reads,  so 
interested  is  she  in  watching  a  golden-haired  girl  and  a  handsome 
young  man,  who  frequently  interrupt  the  game  to  point  out  the  grave 
antics  of  a  stately  blue  heron,  that  stalks  majestically  about  the  lawn 
or  poses  picturesquely  on  one  leg  under  a  glossy  palm. 

But  we  must  not  approach  the  border-land  of  romance.  Lady 
Jane  is  no  longer  a  child,  and  Arthur  Maynard  is  years  older  than 
the  boy  who  gave  her  the  blue  heron. 


—  «     SSSSf""" 


AUG6    1960 


LD  21-SOm-l, 


33802 I 


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